


Out of Shyness or Shame

by sapphyshipseverything



Series: Out of Shyness or Shame [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Food Issues, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Starvation, Mentions of past abuse, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Past Rape/Non-con, Power Imbalance, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Unintended power dynamics, also should probably have had this already, intermittent braincell reception, there will be comfort eventually I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 56,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26356678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphyshipseverything/pseuds/sapphyshipseverything
Summary: Seeing no other alternatives before him, the witchers really are his best bet at surviving the winter at this point, as much as Jaskier wishes it wasn’t so.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert
Series: Out of Shyness or Shame [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083299
Comments: 1260
Kudos: 1613





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty new to the Witcher fandom, and a lot of my knowledge is gleamed from what I've read (and the netflix show) so apologies if the characterisation is way off or I've got some background details of the world all wrong!

The pain in Jaskier’s stomach is becoming a serious distraction, one that he can’t afford to let continue for much longer. Already, he feels weak almost all the time, his thoughts much more muddled than usual. He’s running out of time to make any worthwhile decisions about what to do, before fate and the gods make it for him. None of the options he has available to him are particularly appealing, but a certain slow and painful death by starvation is bottom of the list of “Outcomes Jaskier Is Okay With”. 

It’s not that Jaskier hasn’t tried to remedy the situation on his own. Beyond a handful of strawberries that even the birds hadn’t eaten because they were almost rotten, there just isn’t much food to be found this late in the season. If Jaskier knew how to hunt, it would probably be a different story, but he doesn’t have the knowledge to hunt anything that wouldn’t kill him first in all likelihood, and aside from plants that he’s very familiar with that look close enough to how they appear on a plate (like the strawberries), he isn’t confident enough in his ability to not accidentally poison himself by foraging. It’s a miracle that nothing he’s eaten so far has harmed him. As loath as he is to admit it to himself, Jaskier knows he won't survive the winter on his own out here. 

He could go to one of the villages dotted round the edge of the forest, or along the road. It’s maybe a day’s walk to the closest village, and he’d probably just about survive that much longer without food. There’s not likely to be much work available when he gets there, not at the end of the harvest season meaning little work on the fields, and also the end to summer crowds meaning taverns and inns might need an extra pair of hands. He could keep moving, he supposes. Stealing food from markets would surely be easier than foraging has proved to be, and if he kept outrunning the consequences... Realistically that wouldn’t work either, because all it would take is a little bad luck (which Jaskier is very good at attracting) and Jaskier could end up in a worse situation than what he just escaped from, holed up in some godsforsaken prison somewhere. 

Which brings his attention back to the possible solution right in front of him. Three witchers have appeared in the clearing he’s been using as his base, bringing three horses and all manner of weaponry and supplies with them to gather around the empty fire pit. 

He had stumbled across their encampment on his return from searching the area in a fruitless endeavour to scavenge a meal for himself. Only the men’s preoccupation with dismounting from their animals and his own familiarity with the area had meant he wasn’t spotted. One of the larger oak trees a little ways into the forest had enough foliage left to conceal him from view, while still giving a reasonable sight line to where the men are. The amount of mud on his clothes from living rough these last few weeks leaves him pretty well camouflaged, as long as he stays absolutely still so as not to draw a witcher’s attention. Jaskier thanks the gods he hadn’t been able to get a fire to light last night in the rain, giving the appearance of the clearing having been deserted and washing away most traces of him. If the area had looked like it was more recently inhabited, no doubt the witchers would have discovered him immediately. Years of practise at making himself still, small and unremarkable to avoid unwanted attention keep him safe in his spot above their heads while he assesses the situation. 

They aren’t the first group of mercenaries to pass through the area, what with the war steadily encroaching northwards, but they are the group that’s got the closest to where Jaskier is. This far from the main path, people with any sense don’t usually try to make camp here for long, what with the various monsters rumoured to be in the area. From Jaskier’s point of view, he’d rather die at the hands of a monster just trying to survive than a monster who thinks himself a man, but most don’t share his grim outlook. Monster hunters, though? It makes sense he’d see a group of them out here eventually. 

Jaskier would undoubtedly be less exposed as part of a group than on his own, less vulnerable to the threat of monster attacks (not that he’s had to deal with that so far) and more likely to have access to food, but he hasn’t yet found a group worth joining, given the considerable downsides. After all, he is well aware than any safety to be found in numbers is never shared for free, and the men he’s come across so far have been obvious enough in their cruelness from afar that Jaskier hasn’t dared to get any closer and risk finding out just how sadistic they are. 

The witchers don’t seem as violent as he would have expected. There’s none of the constant brutality fighting among the group that Jaskier has come to expect from men like this; the type of men with gleaming deadly weapons within reach at all times and poor impulse control. Nor do they delight in casual destruction of the area as they gather supplies and settle down. Often it’s easiest to avoid groups of mercenaries like that by travelling at the edges of the destruction they leave in their wake. No one man seems to be in charge either, as far as Jaskier can tell, each simply quietly going through the mundane motions of making camp. 

One, dark haired and with a deep scar bisecting one side of his face, is gathering firewood from the edge of the clearing furthest from the horses, hacking down branches and piling them up in the fire pit in a much more organised way than Jaskier has ever attempted himself. Once the logs are arranged to his liking, the man conjures fire out of nowhere, his hand shaping into an unfamiliar sign. 

Jaskier had half forgotten that witchers could do some magic. There are so few of them left that it wasn’t often you ran into one, not unless your village was fortunate enough (or unfortunate enough) to employ one to slay some beast. There were so many rumours of their abilities it was hard to separate fact from fiction most of the time, but it seems the rumours of their mutations giving them some level of magical ability are true. The man retrieves a sizable pot from their bags, and starts preparing what looks like some kind of pottage from ingredients they’ve brought along. He calmly slices vegetables and throws them into the pot along with what looks like some kind of dried meat before adding some water one of the other men has fetched for him, all in a quantity surely large enough to feed all three of them.

The other dark haired man is putting up a tent a small distance away, its entrance pointed towards the fire. An intense scowl lives on the man’s face, visible even from Jaskier’s vantage in the trees. His posture betrays his anger as he tries to smooth out the thick canvas over the frame of the tent and lash it in place securely. A few colourful curses carry on the wind up to Jaskier, and he barely suppresses his flinch at the anger clear in the witcher’s voice, but the vicious words seem aimed at himself and his inability to get the tent to cooperate rather than at anyone around him, given the complete lack of reaction from either of his companions. He makes several trips back and forth from the horses to the tent, ferrying what looks like three thick bedrolls inside. 

Jaskier forces himself to relax, and allows his attention to be drawn to observe the final man. 

The last man is slightly larger than the other two, both broader and taller, and with a head of long, stark-white hair. It can only be the Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf, the continent’s most infamous Witcher. The fear which Jaskier had only just tamped down comes roaring back to life. There are no shortage of tales about this man’s viciousness, his violence towards monsters and men alike. Uncountable numbers have lost their lives to the twin swords scabbarded to his back, to say nothing of those rumoured to have died by use of his hands alone. There’s no telling what this man could do to Jaskier, what pain he could inflict with even the slightest effort. 

Wouldn’t it be less painful to just melt back into the forest, and pray these men don’t find him before he inevitably succumbs to malnutrition and exposure to the elements? 

The Butcher doesn’t really live up to his name though, not in this quiet unguarded moment among his fellow witchers. He tends to the horses with a startling gentleness, methodically brushing down their coats to remove any sweat or dirt, before making sure they’ve been fed and watered after what looks like a long day of riding. He moves around to pay particular attention to one of them, a brown mare, patting her nose almost lovingly and feeding her an apple he produces from some side pocket out of view. The horse devours the treat in two quick bites, as if ravenous despite the generous heap of hay in front of her, while the Butcher placidly holds it in place for her. Well. Jaskier certainly relates to her enthusiasm for food. 

In the end, it’s that which makes up Jaskier’s mind. A man who looks after his and his companions’ horses so carefully is unlikely to be excessively cruel, at least not to those things which have a utility to him. Yes, an evil man may still show kindness to his horse, but if Jaskier can provide a...service to these men, perhaps they would categorise him as a thing of use and allow him share of their supplies and their protection. If they would keep him around, any price would be worth warmth and a full belly. 

Seeing no other alternatives before him, the witchers really are his best bet at surviving the winter at this point, as much as Jaskier wishes it wasn’t so.

Best not to be caught off guard by these men, then, but to make the decision to join them before he’s discovered and doesn’t have a choice in the matter. At least then he can maybe negotiate with them. Best to move now, before night truly falls and he risks dying by startling their lethal reflexes before he can explain himself. 

All he has on him is one small pocket knife and his half empty waterskin, neither of which is likely to be threatening to three fully armed witchers. He should still probably either discard the knife or make them aware of it immediately, before they discover it on him and get the wrong idea. He has no intention of trying to defend himself in any way, at least not beyond making himself as unthreatening and small a target as possible, but best not to give them an excuse for violence towards him. 

He’ll need to discard the knife, then. Jaskier crawls as silently as he can manage from his spot in the tree, heart thudding in his chest. Moving painfully slowly, it takes a long time to reach the ground, but he makes it without alerting any of the men just yet, still hidden behind its large trunk and the semi-darkness of dusk. He sets his knife and his bottle at the base of the tree, and after hesitating, removes his cloak and places it with his other possessions. It wouldn’t be good to be seen to be trying to conceal anything under the loose fabric. Jaskier’s been punished for less before. He shivers, the evening air seeming much cooler in just his tunic. Well, if everything goes to plan, he’ll get his cloak back soon enough. Of course, only if his new guardians deign to give it to him again. Or he’s still alive to need it. 

Jaskier doesn’t allow himself to run the calculations again in his mind before he makes his move. Without food soon, he’ll be hungry and cold even with the cloak. He takes a deep breath, and steps out from behind the tree with his arms above his head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update should be tomorrow (09/09/2020) and then depending on how writing goes we'll see after that! Let me know what you think so far :D


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes contact with the witchers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely response this story has got in the past 24 hours! I've been slightly overwhelmed in the best sort of way. The Witcher fandom has been one of the most welcoming I've been a part of in years, and I appreciate each and every one of you who's taken the time to engage with this story. Also all the commenters were so worried about Jaskier getting some comfort, you guys are so sweet. I promise he will! Arguably he's about to get some right now, even if he is still uncertain about everyone's motives. 
> 
> I hope you like the new chapter. If any of the character interactions seem awkward, blame it on all of these people having basically no social skills.

He immediately finds himself in the centre of a semicircle of decidedly threatening swords, their blade tips only a few scant inches away. The three men have easily fallen into a defensive formation around him. Jaskier’s efforts to remain undetected in his approach were obviously woefully unsuccessful. He spares a brief thought to wonder when exactly they realised he was there, and how exactly they got their swords unsheathed so quickly and so silently. Jaskier stands deadly still in the middle of all that steel, gaze lowered at the forest floor in an effort to appear as non threatening as possible. He can not afford to fuck this up. 

The two dark haired witchers move in sync to flank either side of him, the tips of their swords both now inches from Jaskier’s throat. He’s at a disadvantage, his position facing the fire meaning his vision is somewhat blinded by the light, while his new friends and current captors are cast in shadow. The White Wolf holds his position in the centre, appearing to assess the tree line behind Jaskier, although it’s hard to tell what he’s looking at against the light. 

“Who the fuck are you?” The angriest witcher, currently scowling on Jaskier’s left, is the one to break the tense silence first. 

“My name is Jaskier, oh brave and noble witchers.” Jaskier cringes internally, but how else do you address three witchers respectfully on the spot? “I’m so sorry to...inconvenience you in your travels but I must beg you for your assistance. I’ve been travelling in these woods for the last few weeks and if I’m honest I don’t think my survival skills are up to scratch. Please- I...I know I can offer few skills of use to you but I promise I can make it worth your while if you let me travel with you. I pose no harm or ill will to you, kind sirs.”

Jaskier dips his head shakily, not willing to bow and have the motion taken as a threat, and tries to better control his emotions. He needs to think logically about how to convince the witchers not to murder him on the spot. Right now, he’s getting a rather stony reaction to his rambling, and he can’t afford to fail here. He addresses the Butcher more directly, assuming he’s the leader here given his reputation, and aims for honest practicality rather than emotion or flattery. 

“I’ve been travelling alone, sir. You’ll find my belongings at the base of the large oak beside us, and my bedroll over behind the horses. I’ve been staying in this clearing, which is how I came upon you. I did not intend to ambush you. Please, I beg you to consider letting me travel with you, sir.” 

The White Wolf nods to his companions, and as one they move. The one with the scar moves to stand behind Jaskier, sword now held perpendicular to his throat in case he tries anything tremendously stupid like attacking one of them. Every hair on the back of Jaskier’s neck stands on end to have such an obvious threat at his back; his breathing coming in fast and shallow. He lowers his arms slightly to move them out of the way of the sword, fearful of them getting accidentally slashed due to his general shakiness right now, which unintentionally further exposes his throat. Great. Hopefully it will at least come across as a display of submission.

“Easy, lad. If you’re telling the truth you have no reason to fear us.” the witcher behind him says, apparently in an attempt to calm him down. Or maybe to stop him from bolting. 

The two other men move to sweep the area, verifying that Jaskier truly is alone and not here as some decoy or distraction for some other larger group. They quickly and efficiently search the forest until they’re well out of sight of the camp, swiping their swords through the underbrush to check for any potential threats. The dark haired one not currently holding a sword to his throat finds his stuff at the base of the tree on his way back from the perimeter, while the White Wolf grabs his bedroll from where it was hidden in the bushes, and they deposit his belongings at his feet before turning their attention to each other. 

The angry one speaks first, voice gruff. _“Well, ‘Jaskier’ seems to be telling the ******* truth so far. We’d have heard any other men ****** out there by now, and our ********** would have ******* us to any magic.”_

The conversation has switched to Skelligen, clearly in an attempt to discuss Jaskier without him knowing exactly what they’re saying. Jaskier keeps his gaze on the ground. He recognises the language, but he isn’t fluent, and he can’t catch much more than the gist of the sentence, meaning that their tactic is somewhat effective. If they’d chosen Elder, he would have been able to follow along much better, but alas nothing is ever simple. 

The Butcher tilts his head in consideration. The man behind him doesn’t lower his blade. 

“ _Hmm. We should have heard him much ******* than we did.”_

The White Wolf moves in closer as the witcher guarding Jaskier steps back. Jaskier instinctively flinches and raises his arms to cover his face as the sword withdraws from his throat. He beckons for Jaskier to draw his arms up and away from in front of his face and into his original arms raised position.

A pair of calloused hands begins to sweep over him, first settling at the base of his throat, then moving up to span behind his head- apparently they think he could have concealed a weapon what… behind his ears? In his hair? It is rather dirty and matted, much to Jaskier’s shame, so perhaps they’re wise to check it, although the worst they’ll find is perhaps a twig or two. And some dirt. The two men standing watch screw their noses up in unison as the motion dislodges a fresh shower of filth, which falls on his shoulders. 

_“He smells…********.”_ The angry one sounds disgusted, and Jaskier feels his cheeks heat at the less than complimentary comment. 

_“So do you when you haven’t had a **** in a few weeks, ******* .”_

_“Like you smell any better, ********!”_

The two men talk over each other, trading insults in that way that only close friends- or perhaps brothers- do so easily; quick witted, fast paced and clearly second nature to them. 

The Butcher cuts into the bickering, the full intensity of his gaze focusing on Jaskier’s face, which he tries futilely to ignore. _“Could be on *******- it’s hard to get a read on his ******** underneath.”_

The hands move, gliding down each arm before swiping firmly over his torso. Of course, he’s been checked for weapons by unfamiliar men before, so Jaskier knows what to expect. He braces himself for the inevitable groping and the lewd comments, as those hands move from his waist, down across his lower back, skimming his backside before swiftly encircling each thigh. 

Surprisingly, the hands stay almost clinical in their movements, only focused on checking for any threat rather than trying to feel him up. Jaskier supposes they’ll have plenty of time just for that, once they’ve established he won’t stab them with a hidden dagger or poison them with some hidden vial of potion. 

Once he’s been patted down from head to ankles, the hands are removed from his body, and instead make a motion for Jaskier to remove his boots, which he does even with his shaking fingers fumbling at the laces. Earlier, he thought he felt vulnerable after leaving behind his cloak, but standing on the soft ground, the cold damp of the leaf litter already soaking into his stockings, Jaskier experiences a whole new level of vulnerability. He’s at an even further disadvantage now, either if he tries to fight or if he tries to run away. His boots are handed off to one of the other men, Jaskier isn’t sure which, dashing his hopes of getting them back quickly. He thinks they’re checking the heels- or what’s left of them at this point- for any concealed blades. It’s getting harder to follow what’s happening through the nausea and vague panic that’s building within him. 

“Hmm.” 

The White Wolf sounds...contemplative. Certainly not angry, at the very least. 

“ _Well it doesn’t look as if the *** plans to **** our throats in the dead of night.”_ The scarred one quips, sword finally lowered to point towards the ground rather than at Jaskier. “ _What’s the **** of letting him **** the night? We did ***** his camp from him.”_

_“You’ve always been a bleeding *****, Eskel.”_

_“Come on, he’s ******* half to death- what **** is he gonna do all three of us?”_

Jaskier doesn’t try to follow who’s talking too closely. His poor translation skills are making it hard to keep up, and the lack of food and fear are combining to make him feel rather unwell. He can only hope they make a decision soon, before he faints at their feet. 

_“He did ************ disarm himself before he came out. Took off his *****, too.”_

_“Could still be a trick to make himself appear **********.”_

The three men glance his way, giving him a thorough look up and down. Jaskier feels his skin crawl at the scrutiny, but stays still and compliant. Looking again between each other, the witchers seem to come to some agreement, and re-sheath their swords. 

_“We’ll take it in turns ******* him for the night. We can decide what to do with him in the morning before we set off for **** ******.”_

Jaskier wishes he knew more Skelligen to parse exactly what they were planning to do with him. At least it’s looking less likely he’d be murdered for sport before morning. Jaskier sways on his feet, lightheaded and overwhelmed, unable to stay standing for much longer. 

The witchers’ attention snaps back to him at once. 

“When was the last time you ate?” The scarred one asks him. 

It takes Jaskier a second to process the question. “Three days ago, sir” 

The witcher frowns, looking displeased at his response. “Lambert, fetch some of that stew I made. Only a half portion.”

Jaskier doesn’t get his hopes up that he might be fed. There are any number of reasons they might be bringing food over. They might be testing his compliance by taunting him with what he so desperately wants. They might have decided they’re hungry themselves. Although surely they would have spoken in Skelligen again if they didn’t want him to understand. 

“My name is Eskel. That lug over there getting some stew is Lambert, and the white haired one staring at us is Geralt. You’re going to stay with us until morning, while we decide what to do with you after that.” 

Jaskier suppresses a shudder as he thinks of all the things a group of witchers might decide to do with him, but he manages a mostly polite response to the introduction. It’s hard to be sure with the wooziness building due to his lack of food. 

Lambert (the dark tempered one apparently) returns from near the fire, and holds a small wooden cup out to give to Eskel. The cup is steaming, full of warm stew and wafting a delicious smell over to where Jaskier stands. 

Jaskier makes note of the fact that the order was followed out so quickly. The other two men might cede to _Geralt’s_ (who would have thought the Butcher’s name was Geralt?) leadership in a situation requiring tactical knowledge, but it’s clear that no single man is in charge. Meaning Jaskier has no single man to work to earn the favour of, which both simplifies and complicates his position at once. He’ll have to be equally charming and obedient to all three of them. 

A hand lands heavily on his shoulder, and Eskel guides him towards the fire and it’s blessed warmth. 

“Sit, before you keel over.”

Jaskier knows this command, at least. He falls neatly to his knees, ignoring the mud sure to be covering the fabric of his breeches. It’s not like they’re not going to be even more stained in a few hours. He tilts his head towards Eskel, who’s still standing closest to him, though he is careful to avoid eye contact. 

The three men seem to startle at his movement. Eskel bends to keep his hand on his shoulder, while Geralt crouches in front of him. Lambert stands awkwardly in the background, still grasping the cup in his hands. Jaskier isn’t sure why the position has shocked them- perhaps they prefer acquiescence to be shown in some other way? If that’s the case, Jaskier will learn quickly what they require of him as soon as he knows what that is, but for the moment they seem unsure how to correct him.

“Here.” 

Geralt picks up Jaskier’s own waterskin off the ground, and rather than handing it to him to drink on his own, holds it in front of Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier parts his lips and leans forward, and is rewarded by the cool rim of the bottle being tilted against his lips. He looks up at Geralt through his lashes, aiming at being demure. He probably misses the mark, given the man’s expression remains unreadable rather than pleased. Rather than worrying, Jaskier opts to focus on the water instead, taking what’s being offered to him while he can. Usually it would be insulting to not even be allowed to hold his own drink; the shame of the position makes his cheeks blush. But Jaskier would do anything for that cup of stew in Lambert’s hands, so he tolerates the performance even if he resents it a little in his own head. 

He’s only managed a few mouthfuls before the bottle is being tilted away again, and Geralt stands and walks away, heading towards the tent. Jaskier tries not to whine, and instead accepts what he's given. 

His attention soon snaps to Eskel, as the man sits down across from him on the nearest of the sturdy rocks surrounding the fire pit. He gestures for Lambert to pass him the cup, which he does, before heading back towards the pot hanging over the fire, stirring it restlessly. Eskel holds out the cup of stew towards Jaskier, pressing it into his hands as he instinctively raises them to grasp it gently. 

Even the warmth of the wooden cup in his hands feels good. Jaskier doesn’t know when the last time he had a hot meal was. Months, probably, long before he stumbled into these particular woods. He brings the cup to his lips. 

Jaskier pauses, having been caught out by this trick before. He may be stupid, but it’s rare the same thing will catch him out twice, even if it’s a different set of people playing the trick. The food smells so good, he can’t afford to mess up this late in the game. 

Eskel looks at him strangely, perhaps disappointed his ploy to deprive him of the chance to eat on a technicality didn’t work, perhaps impressed that Jaskier knows his place so well. He lets go of the cup, once it seems like Jaskier is able to hold it steady, though he keeps his hand resting possessively on his shoulder. 

“Go on then, eat up.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

The food is heavenly from the first sip, the simple mix of vegetables and meat tasting like the food of the gods rather than the simple peasant fair it is. It’s a little difficult to eat properly without a spoon, but after a few tries it becomes second nature to tilt the cup just so, and his efforts are helped by stew itself being rather thin. Maybe they watered it down when he wasn’t looking. Nevertheless, it’s the most wondrous thing Jaskier has ever eaten, and he closes his eyes in pleasure, unmeasurably grateful even if this is all he gets out of this precarious arrangement. 

“Slowly, or you’ll make yourself sick.”

Jaskier tries to heed the warning and slow down a little, but it’s hard after so long without food. Eskel supervises him as he drinks the whole cup, stopping him occasionally in order to let the food settle in Jaskier’s stomach a little, but never taking the food away from him and never toying with him cruely. Even the hand on his shoulder starts to feel less possessive and more… stabilising, like Eskel is afraid he’ll fall over without it.

The other men flit around camp in the background- filling larger bowls with the stew for each other, fetching water from the creek, checking on the horses and feeding logs to the fire, but Jaskier tunes them out for now, too blissed out on the food and the gentle commands given to him by Eskel. 

He almost forgets to be afraid for a little while, having been lulled into relaxing by the heat of the fire and the sheer exhaustion of running on adrenaline. He’s not sure how long it takes, but when he glances down his cup has been drained of the stew. He hardly has a moment to think what to do with the empty cup before it’s taken from him to be placed with the other empty dishes that now need washing. The daze of a good meal recedes somewhat, and the reality of his situation sets in again. This is the part where he pays them back for their kindness. 

He curls his hands tightly in his lap in an attempt to quell their shaking. 

Geralt is the one tasked with explaining how this arrangement will function, it seems, as the other two men take the opportunity to draw away from Jaskier, occupied with the dishes and bickering lightheartedly with one another. Geralt hesitates for a moment, and then sits down in Eskel’s place. 

“We thought it would be best if you took the tent for tonight. You’ll be more...comfortable? In there and- well, look, no offence, it will allow for us to keep tabs on you better. We don’t trust you yet.”

Right. As if anything about this is comfortable. These witchers are awful fond of their cloak and dagger euphemisms for a bunch of men who wear daggers (or swords, whatever) literally strapped to their backs, but it’s not like Jaskier wants them to be more obvious about it either. Getting fucked in the privacy of a tent is better than the alternative of getting fucked out in the open for everyone to see. It’ll certainly lessen the threat of hypothermia. And, his stomach helpfully points out, they could have fucked him before they fed him anything at all. Jaskier is very grateful they didn’t do that. 

“The three of us will take turns being on watch. These woods are dangerous for humans. But all of us will be well within hearing distance if anything were to go wrong during the night.” 

Jaskier shivers a little at the threats Geralt’s words disguise, but he nods anyway. He didn’t expect to be unguarded, or for him to be able to do so much as roll over without one of the men hearing him, but being reminded of the fact settles heavily in his gut. 

The witcher stands, waiting expectantly with his gaze fixed on Jaskier before he takes the hint and gets up off the ground. His legs are a little shaky, half numb as they are after being folded under him for so long, but he just about keeps up as Geralt escorts him to the tent. Once they reach its entrance, the witcher stops to hold the flap of the tent open, clearly expecting Jaskier to climb inside first. 

Jaskier wonders if this will be when it starts, while he’s on his hands and knees, unprotected back bared to the camp , any possible escape ahead of him cut off by thick canvas on all sides, but no. To his surprise, the other man doesn’t join him, instead leaning down awkwardly until his head pokes into the tent. 

“I already set out your bedroll for you. Your, uh, boots and cloak should be in there too. Lambert managed to knock most of the dirt off them.”

Laying out his bedroll makes a certain amount of sense- perhaps the men just don’t want their own bedrolls getting sullied- but that doesn’t really explain the boots and cloak. He won’t be needing either until morning, right? Still, best to be polite. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Hmm. Don’t do something stupid like run off.” 

With that Geralt abruptly drops the canvas and steps away, casting Jaskier and the rest of the small space in shadow. A faint glow of the fire makes it through the fabric of the tent, the flames creating patterns that dance slowly back and forth. Jaskier watches them for several minutes as they’re really rather pretty, his mind entirely empty. 

Jaskier isn’t sure what to make of this whole situation. The White Wo- _Geralt_ didn’t seem to require anything of him right now. If anything, the man almost couldn’t wait to get away. Jaskier nearly dares to hope that these men don’t intend to take anything from him but then- how do you explain the food in his stomach? The roof (albeit one made of cloth) above his head? How do you make sense of the protection these men are offering, if only for tonight? Nothing is given for free. 

Then again, Geralt didn’t precisely say he was allowed to sleep, did he? Perhaps they mean to allow him some time to...prepare himself, then? That makes a certain amount of sense. Though what he can really do to prepare physically is rather limited by his complete lack of useful supplies. 

Jaskier will take the opportunity to mentally prepare himself at least. In the past, whenever circumstances have been just about as dire as they are now, he had sometimes managed to find a place within himself to withdraw into. It almost felt as if Jaskier moved outside himself, for lack of a better phrase. The spark that lived inside him and made him feel like _Jaskier_ , retreated to some safe place deep within where even he couldn’t reach it, while the rest of him remained, and suffered through whatever was happening. That way the core of him wasn’t smothered out by whatever horrendous situation he found himself in. He’s never tried to induce that feeling before- it just sort of instinctively comes to him when he needs it most, once he learned the trick of being able to slide his mind into that place like a key turning in a particularly stubborn lock. In fact, any time he’s tried to force it, the refuge has slipped through his fingers completely, but maybe this time he can make it happen. 

He takes the opportunity to lie down, curling on his side in the small pile of his own blankets that have been spread out to fill the central spot in the tent. They look a little pitiful in the wide open space obviously meant for three full grown witchers, but they take the worst of chill off the ground beneath him. There’s another act of kindness Jaskier will surely have to repay. 

Jaskier leans forward to grope around the space for his cloak, the effort hindered by how hard it is to make out much more than a couple of hand spans in front of his face. He keeps stretching until he makes contact, and then he drags it towards him to drape around his shoulders. 

There’s no point worrying about things already past. Maybe Geralt didn’t say he could sleep, but perhaps he could just rest, just for a moment. Jaskier is too keyed up from the background level of fear he’s had simmering in him for hours at this point to even hope to fall asleep, but maybe if he can rest for a while he’ll be less jittery, and less likely to fuck anything up when the time comes. 

The low sounds of indistinct male voices don’t seem so threatening when they’re muffled. If Jaskier closes his eyes, he could be in any one of the campsites he’s stayed in over the years, and it’s easy to let himself be lulled into a sort of doze by the familiarity. He’s done this what seems like a hundred times before, and while unpleasant, everything that’s happened to him has proved survivable, at least. There’s no reason to believe just yet that this time will be any different. Only time will tell if his gamble to align himself with a group of witchers will pay off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think! Next update should be this weekend, hopefully. Also can anyone help me be less boring about chapter names? I tried for so long to think of something, but it's just numbers for now, unfortunately.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier spends the night and the next morning getting used to his new life among witchers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got too excited and this chapter was ready quicker than I thought so... enjoy? I’m still aiming to post the next part this weekend!

Morning comes slowly. 

It looks like it’s turning into one of those grey, directionless days that always come near the start of winter, where dawn doesn’t so much break but instead the sky gradually lightens and you look up and realise the day had already started several hours ago, the sun buried under layers of dense cloud. It’s not quite at the point of dawn yet, at least as far as Jaskier can tell from his position staring at the roof of the tent, but it won’t be long before the other men in the camp start to stir. 

Jaskier isn’t sure how much he slept during the course of the night, if he even slept at all. His memories are hazy in that way where it’s hard to distinguish dreaming from wakefulness, and mostly he remembers jerking awake over and over again, which probably means he dozed off at some point from sheer exhaustion, but not that he got much true rest.

He just couldn’t relax, not when he was waiting at every moment for something to break the tension ratcheting up inside him. Jaskier couldn’t help but be aware every time there was movement outside his tent, a rustling of leaves or the call of some unfamiliar animal enough to stir him. 

The worst moments were when the witchers switched who was on watch. Jaskier was paralysed by the feeling of dread whenever footsteps would approach close by. Each time (and thank goodness they only had to change over twice) he held his breath, body rigid with fear, as voices whispered softly to each other, and bodies shuffled around one another in the dark.

He never knew what to do in those last few precious seconds before everything might come crashing down, his mind spinning between the different options. Would it be better to feign sleep, and bet on them leaving him alone? Or would that only anger them into reacting more harshly and with more violence? He hasn’t forgotten that at no point was he actually instructed to get some sleep, just not to go anywhere or do anything stupid. Maybe it would be wise to act eager when one of them finally tried to join him inside the tent, hide his fear with cheerful enthusiasm, but Jaskier is well aware he can’t keep up that facade forever.

He doesn’t even know yet how to factor individual preferences into his behaviour, as surely each witcher will have different desires he’ll need to cater to. It’s hard to say which witcher he fears most being the one to begin things. There’s too much that’s unknown: how much stronger a Witcher is than a normal man, whether their stamina is the same or similarly enhanced, how exactly they intend to take their pleasure from him. 

All this endless thinking had preoccupied him so much that Jaskier hadn’t dared to move from his position on his side, chest heaving and body shaking. Judging their personalities from the few scant hours he’s been in their presence leads Jaskier down a fresh path to ponder more imagined horrors but, for once in his life, he decides to not think about it all until he can gather more information. 

Case in point about how speculating is entirely useless at this stage, each time the men had changed over guard, absolutely nothing had happened. The murmur of voices stayed several paces away from the entrance of the tent, where presumably the watchman was sitting with his back to the fire, watching the night. The footsteps never came any closer than that either, and in fact mostly sounded as if they were retreating, to the far side of the fire where the witchers must have set up their bedrolls. 

Rather than calming his nerves, the unexpected misstep in the pattern of how these things usually tend to pan out only made Jaskier grow more nervous. He feels like an actor without a script to follow, a bard performing a tune that he hasn’t finished writing. Jaskier is determined to make this arrangement work, but he _can’t_ if he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing. 

So that’s how Jaskier spent his night. He allows himself the luxury to wallow just a little bit longer because it won’t be long before someone wakes up and decides to come check on him. 

Sure enough it isn’t long before he hears footsteps again, this time sounding much more purposeful than before and headed straight his way. Jaskier sits up a little too quickly, giving himself a head rush. His hands grasp at his cloak, keeping it safely round his shoulders as he tries to position himself into a more respectful pose, but the flap to the tent opens to reveal Lambert leaning over him while his legs are still inelegantly sprawled under him. 

There’s an awkward pause where they both just look at each other, Lambert taking in Jaskier’s somewhat dishevelled state. The witcher is wearing full leather armour, a sword in place at his hip. 

“Come on, the others are already up.” 

Jaskier scrambles out of the tent, trying not to be a baby about how cold it seems out in the chill of early morning after a night of relative warmth. He goes to take a step forward, but he’s stopped by a gentle hand against his chest. 

“Aren’t you gonna put your boots on?” 

Oh, right. Jaskier had forgotten he’d been given those back. Before he can bend to correct his mistake though, Lambert glances down, eyes landing on Jaskier’s muddy stockings. “On second thoughts, maybe best that you hold off on that until after you’ve had a wash.” 

With that the witcher grabs his boots and strides off, and Jaskier assumes he’s meant to follow. Down at the main area of the camp, both Geralt and Eskel are awake. Eskel seems to be rolling up their beds from last night, packing away thick furs into neat sausages and tying them up with lengths of corded leather. He picks up all three bedrolls at once and packs them into saddlebags resting by the horses’ feet. It seems the men don’t intend to stay here for much longer. 

Geralt is over by the fire, cooking breakfast. He’s making porridge, from the smell of it, and Jaskier’s stomach clenches at the thought of being allowed to eat a bowl, but alas. Food is not the purpose of waking him as they don’t stop once they reach the fire. Lambert instead grabs a pile of things handed to him by Geralt on the way past, and diverts into the forest, navigating the little trail down to the creek. They come to a stop at the water’s edge. 

“Here.” Lambert thrusts the pile into Jaskier’s hands, and by some miracle he manages not to drop the items into the mud. It appears to be a stack of clothes- tunic, breeches, stockings, a couple of rags- and a slither of soap, as if a small piece has been carved off a larger bar. His own boots are balanced on the top of the pile. “We thought you might wanna…clean up a little.” 

Of course. Jaskier has only himself to blame for not seeing this coming rather than being blindsided by it. They did complain about how he smelled last night. Suddenly being left alone overnight and the witchers being reluctant to touch him makes complete sense. 

It would be nice to freshen up properly- actually use some soap, change clothes, rinse out his hair. Jaskier would relish the chance under any other circumstances, only…well, you can’t get washed fully clothed, can you? And he isn’t likely to be left to his own devices to bathe. Jaskier knows how this goes- first, there’s a pair of lusty eyes watching him undress, then come excuse to “help” him (washing his back is a classic) and then the next he knows he’s being held down in the water and- 

Jaskier is so tired. He doesn’t have it in him to fight back, or even to say anything. At least this would get it over with. He sets his bundle of clothing down on the nearest dry looking surface, an old fallen tree trunk, before turning and starting to strip efficiently, starting with his shirt before tucking his chin and letting his hands reach for the fastenings of his breeches. 

“Melitele’s tits! Right, fuck, I’ll be over here then, while you...do that.” Lambert practically trips over himself, turning his back and stalking away to lean against one of the trees on the edge of the trail, creating a bit of a barrier between Jaskier and the rest of camp. 

Jaskier isn’t sure why the sight of him standing shirtless got that reaction from the man. Normally that’s the point where he sees the desire light up in someone’s eyes. He’s never had that bad of a reaction before. 

He looks down at himself as he fumbles his way out of the rest of his clothes. Sure, he’s still covered in a few days worth of grit and grime, but his body underneath isn’t that repulsive, is it? His ribs stick out more than usual, after weeks of slim pickings food wise, but usually the people he sleeps with get a rush out of seeing him look so petite. He’s got his fair share of bruises and scars too, but that should be nothing but old hat to a witcher. Maybe it really is just the dirt. Jaskier has no idea how sensitive a Witcher’s senses are. If that is what the problem has been... he mourns the loss of a good night's sleep spent worrying about advances that weren’t going to happen. 

He steps into the chilly water, still wearing his underclothes, wading until he’s covered up to his mid- thigh, and starts to scrub at his skin with soap as best he can. He washes his hands first, figuring he’ll need them clean to tackle everything else more effectively, then starts to lather up his chest and arms with a soapy rag, scrubbing until the suds start to turn brown. The water is very cold, as there’s not long left before it’ll freeze over for the winter into ice, but Jaskier dunks the rag into it anyway and uses it to rinse away the soap from his skin. He rings the rag over his head next, attempting to dampen his hair before he works the soap into it, rubbing vigorous circles into his scalp. If he were alone he’d moan at the sensation, at how good it feels to get clean. Detangling it with his fingers isn’t ideal, but he manages alright, before he bends and scoops more water over his head. He wipes away the soap and water that runs into his face, under the guise of cleaning away yet more dirt, and spares a glance towards the shore. 

Lambert hasn’t moved, as far as Jaskier can tell. His back is still to the water, and there’s no indication that he’d just had to whip back around to avoid being caught staring. Before he loses his nerve, Jaskier darts his hand between his legs, pulling down his underwear and cleaning himself there as quickly as he can without drawing any attention. He stands, exposed, for about ten seconds before he can’t stand it anymore, pulling his underwear back over his damp skin and bending to wash over his legs as if nothing had happened. 

He’s been in the water less than five minutes before he decides he can’t push his luck (or stand the cold) any longer, and climbs out. The other, larger rag doesn’t make for a bad towel, and Jaskier moves it briskly over his skin. He strips out of his old underwear, and clambers into the borrowed clothing as quickly as he can manage, to minimise the time spent with nothing on. It all fits fairly well, considering it’s not his. The breeches feel strange without anything underneath them, and he has to pull them closed a little tighter than his own, but the tunic fits him well in the shoulders. His feet appreciate being back in shoes again, too. Even if he’s a little numb all over from the cold water, the clothes are thick and well made, so Jaskier knows he’ll warm up soon. 

He bundles up his old, dirty clothes, a little unsure what to do with them. If he were by himself he’d take the opportunity to rinse them out a bit, try and clean the worst of the dirt off, but they’ll need all day to dry and it doesn’t seem like the witchers plan to hang around that long. 

Lambert chooses that moment to call out to him, asking whether he’s decent. When Jaskier answers in the affirmative, he turns around and gestures for Jaskier to come closer. 

“You look...better! Wow, you really were covered in a lot of dirt before, huh? You were quick in there, too, it takes the other two ages to get washed” The man reaches for the bundle of clothes. “Here, I’ll take that, we don’t have time to wash it right now.” 

Lambert takes them from him good naturedly, hands brushing against his as they attempt not to drop anything “Fuck your hands are cold- come on, you should get warmed up. Now I understand why you were so quick!” 

Jaskier smiles weakly, unsure what to say, but he follows him back towards the clearing. The walk is infinitely more enjoyable this time, the sound of leaves crunching beneath his boots a soothing backdrop to their short journey. 

Both Eskel and Geralt are sitting side by side by the fire in companionable silence, bowls of porridge grasped in their hands. The pair nod in greeting to Lambert and Jaskier. Lambert walks towards the horses, opening one of their saddlebags and dumping the clothes inside. Jaskier stands a few feet away, trying not to show his confusion- does this mean they’ve decided to let him travel with them? 

He’s startled by Geralt suddenly saying his name softly from about a foot away- he hadn’t even heard the man move- but he recovers his composure quickly and turns around. 

“Yes, sir? Did you need my help with something?” 

A strange expression flickers on Geralt’s face, and he darts his eyes to where Lambert is standing behind them, as if Jaskier has done something incredibly odd, but he doesn’t voice any reprimand at what he did wrong, only clears his throat before speaking. 

“Yes actually. Eating a bowl of porridge, if you think your stomach can handle it.” Geralt gestures to the bowl he has in his hands- a real bowl this time, containing a full portion of porridge and not a half ration like Jaskier got given last night. 

Jaskier can’t help the smile that spreads over his face, and he jumps on the chance to have another meal so soon. He hadn’t dared to hope for that. “Yes- please, sir, I’m so grateful for- thank you for your kindness and hospitality I- ” 

Jaskier cuts himself off as the bowl is unceremoniously thrust towards him, his attention refocusing on not spilling any of the precious food. Okay, message received on the flowery gratitude. Jaskier says a quiet thanks again, unable to help himself, and follows Geralt to sit down beside the fire. He goes to kneel again, wincing at messing up his new clothes so quickly, but he’s stopped halfway by a hand grasping his shoulder. The grip isn’t gentle by any means, but it isn’t terribly painful either, and it only lasts until it’s clear Jaskier won’t fall on his knees

“Come sit down over here.” Geralt pulls him up, bringing him to sit beside him on one of the larger fire-side rocks, opposite Lambert but beside where Eskel is already sitting on the next rock along. He sits down carefully next to him, leaving a small amount of space between them, but still sitting close enough to feel the heat of Geralt’s body next to his. 

Jaskier doesn’t think he’s fucked up too badly, since Geralt doesn’t look angry anymore. He notices Geralt’s jaw clench, but there are no other outward signs of his frustration. This is useful, though, because now Jaskier knows their preference for seating, at least while eating, and their confused reactions from yesterday make much more sense. 

He looks to Geralt for permission to eat, and gets a raised eyebrow and a small nod in response, so he doesn’t wait any longer to tuck in. The food is simple, like before, but still better than anything Jaskier has had in a while. He can feel Eskel’s eyes on him, judging whether his instructions to go slow from last night have stuck, so he savours his food rather than wolfing it down quickly like he wants to. 

He’s about half way through his meal before anyone speaks to him, other conversation of resupplying and checking on the animals going over his head while he tries to avoid attention. 

“So, Jaskier, did you sleep well last night?” Eskel asks him brightly, voice cheerful. 

What’s the right answer? If he wasn’t supposed to sleep, then saying he slept well will earn him a slap, at the very least, but if he _was_ supposed to sleep then saying he didn’t would also earn him a punishment. 

“The tent was quite comfortable, sir.” 

Eskel’s eyes narrow slightly, but if he notices the evasive answer he doesn’t comment on it. “No need to stand on ceremony, lad, I don’t think anyone around here has been called sir in years. Just Eskel will do. I only ask because we have a long day of riding ahead, and we can’t have you falling asleep at the reins.” 

Jaskier’s eyes widen. “You’re letting me come with you? Really? Truly! Oh thank the gods, I won’t let you down si- Eskel, thank you!” 

This is better news than Jaskier could have hoped for, and even the usual sting of humiliation at getting yet another thing wrong doesn’t hit him. They’re letting him stay! He can totally make up for it later if he- 

“Calm down, no need to have a conniption. We decided that while we can’t have you stay with us indefinitely- our destination is much too...dangerous for human company- we can accompany you to the next town on our route, about a week’s ride away. Would that be acceptable to you, Jaskier?” 

Jaskier ducks his head at the reprimand, but he’s very eager to agree to the arrangement. If he can behave well enough over the next week, well enough to show them exactly what having a willing human with them all the time could be like, perhaps he can convince them to bring him with them even further than just the next town. A week is enough time for him to display his obedience and demonstrate his marketable skills. It’s much more time than he thought he’d have to convince them. He can’t help but find it strange that it was framed as an offer and not a demand. As if he’d be fool enough to say no. 

The rest of the early morning passes in a hurry, with everyone lending a hand to dismantle what’s left of their camp. Jaskier offers to wash the dishes in the river, but they must be worried about him running off, because they task him with feeding the horses instead, which is a lovely job because he gets to sneak in some gentle head pats and ear scratches while the animals are preoccupied with their food. 

When everything is ready, Jaskier stands awkwardly beside the horses, his bedroll slung across one shoulder. He’s not exactly looking forward to walking for days on end in these shoes, but it’s not like they can magic a fourth horse out of thin air for him. Lambert has already mounted his horse, and Eskel is busy fitting a saddle on his. Jaskier turns around, looking for Geralt, and nearly jumps out his skin _again_ to find him already behind him. Jaskier smiles meekly at him. 

“Hello, Geralt.” 

“Come over here, you’re with me for this stretch.” 

Jaskier furrows his brow slightly, but follows Geralt obediently to beside his horse, Roach, a beautiful girl with whom Jaskier had got acquainted this morning. Geralt strokes the side of her neck gently while he makes his way over, soothing her. He reaches for the pack around Jaskier’s neck, which he passes off wordlessly and watches Geralt throw it to Eskel to tie onto his horse. He turns his attention back to Roach, and pats her saddle expectantly, waiting for Jaskier to get on her back.

Jaskier stares at him stupidly for a second. 

“Do you need help getting up?” Geralt asks earnestly, and Jaskier stutters his assurances that he doesn’t before placing his foot on one of the stirrups and swinging his leg up and over onto Roach’s back. He barely has a second to think _what the fuck_ before Geralt has climbed on behind him, much faster and much more gracefully than Jaskier had. 

Jaskier’s heart speeds up. He thought he would be safe from this for a few more hours. The saddle isn’t meant for two people, so they can’t help but be pressed up against each other. Jaskier might as well be sitting in Geralt’s lap. That conjures a horrific mental image of a few things two people could get up to while riding a horse, and Jaskier doesn’t even want to imagine how much pain that would leave him in. Fuck, why did he never see this shit coming. 

Two arms reach around him to grab onto the reigns, and their presence ratchets Jaskier’s pulse even higher. He really is trapped in place, oh fuck. 

Geralt hums from behind him, moving one hand from the reins to pat Jaskier’s arm softly. 

“There’s no need to be nervous. Roach is a great horse, and she’s not inexperienced at carrying two people. It’s just like riding in a cart, have you ever done that? The motion is the same.” 

Geralt must think he’s afraid of being on horseback, rather than being so close to him. Of course, why would he be afraid of something he should have expected. This is what he’s here for, to be something pleasing and pretty for a witcher to cuddle up to while they ride. He nods, not really sure if what Geralt said required a response, and focuses on keeping his breathing steady. 

Geralt gives Roach a gentle tap to her flank with his heels, and she takes off into a trot, carrying them both away into the trees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now officially the longest piece of fiction I’ve ever written, which is neat. And also slightly wild, given I only started writing it...four days ago? 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter!


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group continues their travels, and Geralt attempts a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate summary: everyone continues to not perceive a damn thing around them correctly.
> 
> Just a quick note- after some feedback last time, I’ve removed the Dead Dove tag, since people seemed to agree it wasn’t necessary. I’m not too sure yet how explicitly Jaskier’s past will be explored, but I’ll be sure to put a warning on any relevant chapters. Let me know if anything needs to be tagged better, it’s always so helpful! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the update- this chapter was kind of just filler, if I’m honest, but I tried my best to keep it interesting!

They ride as a group for several hours. Eskel takes the lead, as he is the one most comfortable with navigating, closely followed by Lambert, while Jaskier and Geralt bring up the rear. The morning is on the brisk side, with a definite chill to the wind, but it’s not unpleasant. The clouds create a stubborn barrier between them and the sun, but they don’t suggest rain is in their future. The forest gradually gets denser, the trees standing together as if huddled against the elements. The extra branches work to obscure more light from reaching the forest floor, meaning everything is cast in varying degrees of shadow. 

Externally, Jaskier keeps himself relaxed in the saddle, allowing some of his body weight to rest back against Geralt’s chest. He keeps his muscles loose so that he can sway with the motion of Roach moving through the trees, back straight and legs resting approximately where the stirrups would be, were he riding in Geralt’s place. He knows from experience that keeping yourself stiff is a great way to give yourself unnecessary muscle pain from riding a horse. To complete the act of carefree riding partner, any time he risks a glance back at Geralt, he plasters a smile on his face- which hopefully conveys how totally at home he is in Geralt’s arms. 

Internally, he’s freaking the fuck out. He can’t seem to turn off his awareness of his body; he’s stuck hyperfocusing on all the places he touches Geralt. He catalogues every reaction to his every movement, trying to understand how best to please with each twitch of muscles or exhalation of breath. It’s strange, being this close to someone after so long on his own. There are aspects of it that appeal to him, parts of himself that are desperate for such benign physical contact from another human being, but such a large part of him can’t help but to shy away.

Geralt, for the most part, is focused almost entirely on the path ahead of them, only occasionally checking in with Jaskier, usually to ask him to shift positions in the saddle so he can see better, or rearranging his limbs to get a better grip on the reins. Other than that, he demands very little of Jaskier’s attention- and by that Jaskier means he asks for little of it, not that he doesn’t focus all of his attention on Geralt anyways. No matter how disinterested he tries to seem, their position is  _ intimate _ , and it can’t be helped when a hand braces against his hip when navigating a rocky patch, or if a lock of hair brushes past his cheek as Geralt reaches forward to spur Roach on beneath them. Each time Jaskier holds his body statue still, waiting to see if this was the time that the situation escalated into something more, but it doesn’t. 

Geralt genuinely seems to be entirely unaffected by their positions even after the long hours spent riding, so if it’s a performance it’s an incredibly believable one. The sole discordant detail is how much he seems to keep twitching his nose, as if there’s a constant bad smell hovering in the air. 

The group comes to a stop near midday- it’s hard to judge with the sun hidden under a blanket of cloud, but it feels like maybe four or five hours have passed since they started their journey. Geralt brings Roach to a stop alongside where Eskel and Lambert have already dismounted, and hops out of the saddle in one smooth motion. He offers a hand to Jaskier, who takes for no other reason than he doesn’t want to refuse and then make an ass of himself falling off a horse in front of three witchers. His legs feel a bit shaky when he gets them back under himself on solid ground, but he doesn’t fall or stumble even a little bit. 

Lambert calls out to him from across the path while he’s still adapting to life on two legs again. “If you need to piss, go do it now! We won’t be stopping again til nightfall.”

Jaskier raises a hand to show that he heard him, and wanders off to go do just that, not straying too far without more explicit permission, but just far enough so he has the illusion of privacy. He’s only gone a few minutes at most. When he returns Eskel claps him on the back, handing him his waterskin which Jaskier drinks from gratefully. 

He glances over to where Geralt and Eskel are engrossed in conversation with each other, looking serious. As if sensing his attention, Geralt’s eyes snap to meet his own, his expression stony, sending a bolt of adrenaline through Jaskier. He has no idea what he did wrong. Something of the spike of fear in his belly must show in his face, because Geralt’s expression twists, and Jaskier looks away. 

“You hungry, Jaskier?” Lambert shakes a bag of what looks like nuts and dried fruit, holding it out to him as an offer to take share of the food. Jaskier is hungry- two hot meals, as delicious as they were, won’t make up for weeks of semi-starvation. As long as the food is offered to him it’s okay to take some, right? He lifts a small handful out of the bag and eats them eagerly while Lambert draws the bag closed again and stows it away with the rest of the food. It’s almost surreal to eat something when he’s hungry rather than have to push the sensation aside. 

Eskel comes up to look over Lambert’s shoulder, taking the opportunity to rifle through what must be their food supplies. “Hmm, at this rate our supplies won’t stretch until we make it to Daevon. Not if we’re feeding another person and the horses.”

The food in Jaskier’s stomach sours. Damn it. 

“Technically we don’t need to eat- we could cut back on meals a bit, that would stretch things further.” Lambert points out, still idly tossing dried fruit into his mouth as he speaks. 

“True, but that’s never pleasant, which is why we had the food with us in the first place.”

Jaskier knows how this goes. Why did he have to get his hopes up? He knew he wouldn’t be able to count on regular meals, so why had he dared to think he would, trusting as a fool like always? He should have pocketed those nuts rather than scoffed them down; he could have stretched those out over a few days, if he’d- 

”We could stop early tonight, if you’re that worried about it. There should be plenty of deer for hunting, or we could put down snares for the rabbits overnight.” 

Huh, that’s right. His witcher companions possess many skills he lacks, including the ability to hunt for their own food. 

“I meant to set some snares last night, actually. But of course we were uh, distracted by our new friend-” Eskel jerks his head towards Jaskier “- so I forgot. Let’s see what Geralt thinks. Geralt! C’mere! What do you think about-” 

“I heard you.” Geralt huffs, stepping closer. 

Lambert rolls his eyes. “Just because you heard doesn’t mean you were listening to us. What do you think, then?” 

Geralt tilts his head in contemplation. “Hmm, wouldn’t hurt to have more food with us. Might delay us a bit.”

“Eh, our schedule was kinda shot when we agreed to bring Jaskier, what’s the difference? Vesemir will enjoy the extra day or two with the keep to himself, antisocial bastard.” 

Eskel tsks, taking Lambert’s point. “We’ll stop a few hours early then- there’s plenty of good little campsites on the banks of the Buina we could stop at, if we make a good enough pace to get that far.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

Jaskier doesn’t really know what to make of the whole exchange. The witchers don’t seem angry at all: they’re just debating the pros and cons of different ideas until they find a satisfactory solution. Which is not how these things usually go (there’s usually a lot more shouting and a lot more violence, in Jaskier’s experience.) The whole thing blows his mind a little. The only detail he gets from the discussion that fits into any sort of framework in his mind is that his presence is a burden on the group. But he can’t really do much to change that, can he? Jaskier vows to make sure he does everything within his power to lessen his impact on their travels. 

Everyone is eager to get back to riding as soon as possible, so they don’t hang around their rest stop for long. Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to clamber onto Roach this time, making himself as comfortable as he can as Geralt shuffles into place behind him again. He makes more of an effort to lean into his embrace this time, putting aside his own discomfort. If Geralt hadn’t agreed to stopping to gather more food, perhaps they would have gone with the ‘starve Jaskier’ option- it’s in his best interests to keep Geralt happy. (Although saying it would be starving him makes it sound like Jaskier is entitled to their food, which of course he is not.) 

The pace is much faster than before, the riders spurring the horses to go that little bit quicker. Jaskier lets himself be lulled by the motion of riding, the sound of hooves striking the forest floor over and over again. The world whips past in a blur of green. 

The group spreads out a bit further this time as a consequence of the higher speed of travel; Roach starts to lag behind the others because she can’t quite keep up with twice the weight on her back. Jaskier expects to ride in silence again, as they did this morning, but to his surprise Geralt speaks once they’ve drawn back a dozen or so yards from the rest of the group. 

“You don’t have to be afraid of me.” 

Jaskier twists in his seat, craning his neck to look at the witcher’s face, but Geralt is staring straight ahead, eyes on the trail. Jaskier has no idea what the hell he’s thinking. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Geralt.” Jaskier says slowly, as he tries to project earnestness into his voice. The truth of the matter is he’s not afraid of Geralt. Not exactly. It’s more that he’s...wary, unsure about where boundaries are and- okay, afraid of overstepping them. But that’s not the same as being just plain afraid of him. 

Jaskier doesn’t know how to voice any of that, though, so he turns back around in the saddle, hanging his head to stare at the back of Roach’s neck. There’s a brief but tense beat of silence, while Geralt works out what to say next. 

“I know a lie when I hear one, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier’s heart jumps into his throat, making it harder to breathe, just a little. The ones who see through the careful performance he constructs for the entertainment of others are always hardest to please, the most exacting in their use of him. He has to throw more of himself into it, carve away at what little he saves of himself  _ for himself,  _ to make it so that even he believes whatever he’s saying. That always makes it more painful when everything comes crashing down, and Jaskier is just enough of a coward to want to prevent the heartache. But he’s tried and failed the alternative of surviving on his own, so there’s nothing else to be done. 

“I know my reputation may proceed me, but I don’t hurt humans who don’t deserve it. Not unless I have no other choice.” 

Jaskier wouldn’t have assumed otherwise- he can’t think of a punishment he hasn’t earned- but that doesn’t really help with the whole fear thing. He doesn’t see why Geralt is telling him this, unless it’s supposed to act as some sort of warning, which is somewhat redundant because Jaskier has no intention of walking a step out of line. 

“I understand.” 

Geralt doesn’t seem convinced, his body rigid. If Jaskier were to look behind him, he knows that his jaw would be clenched again. “Do you?”

“Yes, I swear! I just need…time. To adjust.” Jaskier flounders. “Sir- Geralt- I don’t- I’m not trying to be afraid.” 

Geralt sighs, lifting one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I know. It’s okay. I just wanted you to know that you’re not travelling with a monster.” 

With both of them at a loss for words, silence takes over. Geralt clears his throat, and then spurs Roach on a little faster, trying to catch up with the others. 

The silence lingers until they finally start to hear the sound of the water up ahead. The trees thin again into another clearing, which verges into a field lined on the other side with the river Buire. The river is much wider than the small creek they camped beside last night, probably deeper too, but the flow of water is gentle. 

The horses slow to a stop once they reach the tree line, and everyone dismounts. Geralt takes charge of the horses, untacking them carefully before leading them one at a time down to the water’s edge to drink and to graze on the knee high grasses. Jaskier follows Eskel and Lambert towards an area that must be used as the campsite, with a fire pit already dug and well used, and a couple of fallen trees positioned in place around it. He tries to help as best he can as they make their way through the motions he observed before, ferrying bags from where Geralt has left them into the main area, and once that’s done he gathers any fallen branches he can see for the fire. 

It takes maybe twenty minutes to get everything set up. Jaskier is instructed to sit down out of harm's way after an embarrassing incident between him and a mouse hiding among the leaves that ended with him landing flat on his ass. He would feel restless about sitting doing nothing, but the laughter (and pointing, from Lambert) from all three witchers at his misfortune has succeeded in lifting everyone’s spirits, at least. 

He watches a complicated three way game of rock, paper, scissors take place between the three of them. Jaskier can’t really see the outcome from where he’s sitting, but he doesn’t have long to wonder what the hell that was all about before Eskel explains. 

“We’ve decided that Lambert and Geralt are going to be the ones that go hunting, which means it’ll just be you and me in camp for a bit.”

”What he means is that you two have the honour of sitting on your asses while Geralt and I do the hard work of bringing home the bacon- or well, venison.” Lambert replies haughtily. 

“Ha, squirrel more like, if you’re in charge!” Eskel laughs, and even Geralt suppresses a smirk. 

“Fuck off! You let a deer go one time.” Lambert grumbles. “You sure you can handle being left in charge here while the real men go off to hunt?” 

“I’m positive we’ll manage without your manliness for a few hours. We’ll find a way to occupy ourselves, don’t you worry.”

Eskel looks over at Jaskier conspiratorially, smiling. Jaskier tries to smile back, but his heart sinks as he does so. He wonders if they were deciding who got to go hunting, or who got to stay behind, alone, with him. 

“Come on, we need to make the most of the daylight.” Geralt stomps off toward the forest, causing Lambert to hurry on after him, and leaving Eskel and Jaskier to watch them disappear into the trees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? It’s been so cool seeing everyone’s reactions so far. There are more than a hundred of you subscribed, which is unbelievable to me. Thanks for making me feel so welcome to the fandom. 
> 
> Next update should be early in the week- I’m aiming for Monday but it might be a bit later than that depending on how editing goes.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lessons are learned with Eskel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Things are about to be dramatic. Double check you’re okay with the tags on this thing, and if you need a description of what’s to come before you read, there’s one in the end notes. 
> 
> The penny has finally (partially) dropped!

They stare until Geralt and Lambert are no longer visible amongst the trees. Eskel takes a deep breath before turning to regard Jaskier. “Right, now that those two are gone, time to get to this place straightened out. Come on.” 

Eskel doesn’t shy away from putting Jaskier to work immediately, and apparently he has no shortage of menial tasks that need doing. Jaskier is more than willing to help, grateful to have the chance to prove he could be useful, and of course relieved that any more explicit tasks don’t seem to be on the cards for now. 

Their first task is laundry. They haul a bag full of spare shirts, underclothes and Jaskier’s own filthy clothes from before down to the river to wash. The process of dunking each item in the cold water, scrubbing at any stains with soap, rinsing and then wringing it dry doesn’t take too long. With both of them working through the pile, it's all done in maybe half an hour, which Jaskier is very glad of. Even after that short amount of time his hands are aching from the combination of cold and harsh soap, his back hurts from hunching over and his arms are a little shaky from overuse. Jaskier will be very kind to the next laundry maid he meets. 

They carry their washing back to the fire pit, where Eskel next enlists Jaskier to help him rig a washing line between two sturdy trees, and then to hang their clothing from it. The pegs are a little difficult to place with his hands half numb, but Jaskier doesn’t lag behind Eskel’s efficient pace too badly, so he thinks he helps more than he hinders the process.

Jaskier’s shoulders feel like they’re on fire by the time they finish, unused to this kind of work as he is, so he is extremely grateful when Eskel allows him to sit on one of the fallen logs while he strips ivy from a nearby tree. Eskel hands him a length of ivy, and instructs him to carefully remove the leaves from the vine. It’s an odd task, but one that’s simple and repetitive, so Jaskier keeps his mouth shut and does it without complaint. 

Eskel must sense his confusion, though, or perhaps he just wishes to speak after so much time spent in silence. “The leaves, they can be used to soothe coughs, if you make an extract out of them. Or they can be mashed into a paste and used on aching muscles. It’s always useful to collect some, and go through the hassle of making the remedies yourself. I can usually sell them, if contracts are sparse, because most places don’t know how to make the extract anymore. Or they come in handy to use on yourself.” 

Intrigued, Jaskier finishes stripping his vine and hands his pile of leaves over. Eskel adds them to a small pot, beginning to mash them into a paste with the back of a spoon. Once satisfied, he pours enough of what smells like very strong liquor over them to cover the leaves completely. 

Eskel bends down, rearranging the unlit logs in the fire pit to his liking, using the same unfamiliar sign from before to set them alight. From his better vantage point this time around, Jaskier can see that a small ball of flames forms in the palm of Eskel’s hand, which he then allows to spread over the wood until it starts to burn. 

Eskel catches Jaskier watching, and smirks, “ _Igni._ A simple fire spell. Very useful on the Path.” 

He places the pot near the edge of the flames “Right. That’ll need to brew for a few hours, undisturbed.” 

He wipes his hands against his chest. “Well, no matter what they bring back, we’ll need to bulk out the meal with something else- plus we still have some vegetables left that need using up. Here, you can help me chop.” 

Eskel rummages in one of the bags near his feet for a few seconds, then holds out Jaskier’s own pocket knife, hilt first. Jaskier stares, unable to believe he’s being handed a weapon, but he takes it gingerly. 

“You do the carrots, I’ll work on the potatoes.” 

“Yes, Eskel,” Jaskier says meekly. 

They get to work, reaching into the bag with the vegetables and dicing them into even pieces. Jaskier is given a small wooden chopping board to lean against, no larger than the palm of his hand, while Eskel makes do leaning against the lid of the pot, since it seems the witchers don’t bother to travel with two. It’s satisfying, to neatly cut each carrot into chunks and slide them off his chopping board into the large pot of boiling water with the rest. The repetitive motions lull Jaskier into a bit of a daze, weary as he is from a poor night's rest, a long day of travelling and his earlier tasks. Jaskier’s knife isn’t ideal for the task, dull as it’s from weeks of his misuse of it, so he has to apply quite a lot of pressure to get through the carrots, but he manages, even if he will end up with a few blisters. 

He’s not paying attention, though, which is how he fucks everything up. 

Jaskier is a bit too vigorous the next time he goes to dump his chopping board full of carrots into the pot. His hand accidentally brushes against the hot metal rim, searing his skin. The water splashes up, and because his hand is much too close to the surface of the water it hits him too, scalding his hand and wrist. The pain has him trying to jerk away, almost losing his grip on the board on the ground and scattering pieces of carrot into the fire and onto the ground around him. 

“Ah fuck, lad, you need to be more careful.” Eskel doesn’t sound angry, but he’s startled and he raises his voice in surprise, jumping from his seat as if to try and help. But the pain has Jaskier slipping into the mindset that he’s being punished for something, and raised voices are always what precede something truly agonising happening to him. He can’t quite register that he isn’t in trouble. 

Jaskier feels sick. He doesn’t remember thinking through any of his next actions clearly, only that the single thought on his mind was to fix this as quickly as possible. The tension of the last twenty four hours snaps. 

He drops to his knees in front of Eskel, head lowered and body shaking.“I know, I didn’t mean to, Eskel. I’m sorry! I’m sorry, it was an accident, please. I’m sorry!” 

Hands land on his shoulders, heavy and overwhelming. Jaskier stares at the ground harder. There are five pieces of carrot in his vision, and there’s surely more surrounding the entire area. Is there a blow coming for every piece that he dropped? The hands move to the scruff of his neck, trying to get him to tilt his head up. 

Ah. Jaskier knows that move, knows what is required for him to apologise properly. He can still salvage this situation, if he’s eager enough. He reaches forward, trying to work open Eskel’s trousers, but he can’t get his shaking fingers to cooperate properly. His wrist is throbbing in pain, aggravated by the motion, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is getting Eskel’s trousers open, but the fastenings keep themselves stubbornly closed under his clumsy attentions. 

Hands grasp his wrists, pulling him away. The grip is gentle, but that’s irrelevant, because their touch is excruciating over the burn. Jaskier accepts the pain anyways, invites it even, letting his arms go limp. 

“Jaskier, stop.” 

No, no! Jaskier can’t fail at this, he can’t. He doesn’t want to ruin a quiet afternoon with a punishment, he doesn’t want to find out just how bad a witcher’s strength will be. He doesn’t try to break out of the hold, but he risks looking up at Eskel’s face, trying desperately to smother the panic and make everything okay again. Jaskier feels the key to that blank place in his mind rotating in the lock, but not fully turning, not allowing him entry into the faraway place where whatever happens to his body can’t touch him. He can fix this, he just needs to keep calm until his mind carries him away and Eskel is happy with him again. 

He licks his lips, hoping to draw Eskel’s gaze there. This is not a problem Jaskier has had in awhile, but perhaps Eskel wants him to work harder at his apology. 

“Do you not like your partners to be hands on when they’re apologising? That’s alright, my mouth is _very_ talented all on its own.”

Jaskier leans forward, trying to reach for Eskel with his mouth. The grip at his wrists spasms, holding on tighter, before pushing him backwards and away from Eskel’s crotch. Jaskier sways dangerously close to the fire, but before he has time to truly panic he’s being pulled upright again. Eskel turns neatly, swiveling them around so that he’s now the one with his back to the fire, not Jaskier. 

“Stop. I don’t want that from you,” Eskel says firmly. 

Has Jaskier found the only gentleman in Redania? He would laugh at the thought if he didn’t so desperately want to cry. He’s never had to persuade someone this much to use him before. Normally, at this point he’s well on his way to getting the other man off- unless, that isn’t the problem, is it? 

“Are you not interested in men? It’s okay, I don’t mind. ” Jaskier smiles reassuringly. “A blowjob from me will feel just as good as one from any whore if you close your eyes, I swear. I won’t take it personally.” 

He goes to lean forward again, but all of a sudden his hands have been let go and there’s a flash of bright light, which momentarily blinds him. Somehow, Jaskier finds himself repelled away from Eskel’s body, an invisible barrier appearing between them. The blast only propels him a foot or two backwards, hardly powerful enough to move him at all, but it seems to have had other side effects. He feels dizzy, like someone cuffed him around the head. Gods, maybe that’s what Eskel just did, only with magic. The feeling stuns him into stillness. 

“You’re not okay with this, you’re shaking from head to foot. You’re hurt, Jaskier. Stop.”

Jaskier could point out that none of those factors have ever mattered to anyone before, but he doesn’t have the energy. It stings to have his own pain and fear thrown back at him. 

“Jaskier. I need you to listen to me for a moment- can you do that for me?” Eskel has moved closer without him noticing, his voice coming from much nearer than Jaskier was expecting. 

Jaskier nods dully, his ears ringing. 

“Sexual favours are not something I need from you. They are not something that I require. Not now and not ever. I do not want you like that. Do you understand?”

“I understand, sir,” Jaskier whispers. His body is numb, skin tingling. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so thoroughly rejected before. He feels repulsive. 

“Just Eskel is okay, lad. Can you tell me why you thought I wanted that from you?” 

“I was trying to apologise, Eskel. For being careless and ruining the food. I didn’t want you to be angry with me,” Jaskier pauses, then corrects himself. “I _don’t_ want you to be angry with me.”

Jaskier doesn’t understand why Eskel is making him say this out loud. Humiliation sits heavily in his gut. 

“I’m not angry. I was just worried that you were hurt. Will you let me have a look at your hands?” Eskel asks, crouching down in front of him. 

Jaskier holds them out for inspection, still placidly sitting on his knees. Eskel gently pushes his sleeves up out of the way, rotating his arms to check both the front and back of his hands. Jaskier watches listlessly, unable to respond in any helpful way beyond staying still and pliant. His right arm has a shiny, dark pink burn at the inner edge of his wrist, and a scald that splotches over his skin from his inner wrist around to cover the back of his hand near his thumb and index finger. Red bands intersect the burn, and there is a matching set of bands on the other arm, handprints left behind where Eskel had gripped him too tightly in the confusion.

“Shit, I’’m sorry, Jaskier. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

_It’s okay,_ Jaskier thinks. _No one does._

Eskel seems worried about his unresponsiveness. He instructs Jaskier to look straight at him, then to follow the path his finger traces in front of him with his eyes. He does so easily, but his head throbs unpleasantly. 

“I knew I shouldn't have used _Aard_ on you, but I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You don’t seem to have a concussion, but I probably gave you a headache on top of everything else. You feel any sickness or nausea?” 

Jaskier tries to nod, but the world swims.

Eskel goes to where the bags are stored, rummaging around for supplies. He returns, tenderly taking hold of Jaskier’s hands again in order to carefully apply a clean, wet rag as a cold compress to the burn, taking the heat out of it. After about five minutes, he lifts the rag briefly to apply an ointment to the skin all around his wrists. It hurts, at first, to have fingers brushing over his skin, but after a second the ointment starts to work, and the pain lessens. 

“A salve, to help the burn heal faster. And to stop any dirt getting in. It’ll also help if those marks I left turn into bruises. Here, chew this.” 

Jaskier accepts a small parcel of leaves offered to him, taking it from Eskel’s outstretched hand delicately with his lips since he doesn’t currently have use of his hands. He bites down on it cautiously. The taste of mint bursts over his tongue. 

“Peppermint. To help with the nausea.” 

Eskel helps him move backwards to sit on one of the logs. He gets Jaskier to spit out the mint, once he deems he’s chewed it long enough, and then passes him some water. Jaskier drains the bottle in small sips, but even then he still feels shaky and off-balance. 

Eskel goes back over to the fire, checking on the pots they’d abandoned. He goes through the motions of finishing preparing the vegetables, after bending to retrieve the cutting board that had been thrown during the confusion. He stirs the pot and adds some salt and pepper, a few herbs. He places the lid on the top, and tidies the pieces of carrot on the ground that didn’t fall into the fire, feeding them to the horses who gratefully snap them up. 

Once everything is in slightly less disarray, the witcher sits carefully beside him. He rubs his back slowly in a steady, calming rhythm- the constant, predictable motions helps Jaskier get his emotions back under control somewhat. He starts to match his breathing to it, so that he breathes in on every upstroke and out every time the hand moves down. The smell of burnt carrots hangs in the air. 

It takes a long time, but eventually Jaskier gathers the courage to speak. While his voice may be quiet, he’s proud of the fact that it doesn’t shake. “What happens now?” 

“I was going to recommend you lie down for a bit before dinner. See if that helps your head.” Eskel smiles warmly, bringing his arm briefly to squeeze around Jaskier’s shoulders, before resuming his motions up and down. 

Jaskier closes his eyes. “No, I mean. What happens when they get back?”

He doesn’t know how to categorise the events of the last few hours. It feels like _years_ since Lambert and Geralt left. It can’t be long before they return. That means he doesn’t have much time to try to sort this situation out. 

In any other group he’s travelled with, if he had fucked up so spectacularly, misjudged his...protector’s desires that badly, Jaskier would have been dead. No question about it. If by some miracle he hadn't been, he would have wished to be. Eskel does seem to be understanding about the entire catastrophe, and disinclined to incite any violence towards Jaskier because of it. He’s certainly made his stance on anything of a sexual nature between them very clear.

But if the other witchers hear the whole story, and disagree with his assessments, they might decide to pick up the slack and teach Jaskier a lesson in any number of ways. If Jaskier is lucky, it might be a refresher on the importance of obedience (and Jaskier plans to be _very obedient)_ , and being sent to bed with no supper like a mischievous child. But if he’s unlucky, the lesson could last all night. The lesson could be being left behind. 

Fuck, that might even be what Jaskier deserves, given the fact that Eskel had to resort to actual magic to get him to stop and listen to him. That’s all without mentioning the time and resources he’s wasted. He thinks back to his earlier conversation with Geralt, about hurting only those who deserve to be hurt and desperately tries to suppress the mind numbing terror that rises within him. 

“Well, they’ll want to know what happened-”

“Please, no.” Jaskier should just accept his fate- arguing is not doing him any favours. This is not the way to show his obedience, but he can’t help but beg. 

“I can talk to them for you, if that’s what you’re worried about, explain what happened-”

“I don’t want that. Eskel, please. Please don’t tell them.” Jaskier cringes at interrupting Eskel twice, certain he’s making everything worse, but he has to try. 

“Why?” Eskel sounds confused. 

“I- Please. I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t tell them. I don’t know what you want me to offer you but-“

Eskel sighs, holding up a hand to stop him. “They’ll know something has happened, between the burns on your hands and the smell. I’ll have to tell them something. But I can be vague on any details, if that’s what you want- just tell them there was an accident and you got hurt.” 

It’s not perfect- at the very least, Jaskier comes across as irresponsible and a liability to have around camp. Which. Wouldn’t be an incorrect conclusion to come to after the whole fiasco. But it is incredibly merciful when it comes to describing everything that happened after the accident. 

“Yes, please. Thank you, Eskel,” says Jaskier. He hopes that his gratitude shines through in his reply. “I’ll make it up to you somehow.” 

“There’s no debt to be paid, Jaskier. Come on, you really should lie down.” 

Jaskier is gently herded towards the tent, Eskel directing him to lie down as soon as he’s inside. This time, his bedroll has been placed on the left side of the tent, the right set up with another, much warmer looking bedroll. There’s a gap of floor in the middle, meaning the two people can clamber in and out. 

He lies down docilely, suddenly too exhausted to worry about the thought of sharing the space with one of the others. He blinks drowsily as Eskel lifts one of the top furs from the other bed and covers him with it, with only his head left poking out. He feels shielded, protected by the comforting weight over his entire body. 

“I’ll come get you when supper is ready. Try to rest until then, sleep if you can manage it. I’ll be down by the fire, so don’t be afraid to call out if you need anything.” 

Jaskier hums in response, too worn out to put more effort into it. The flap which acts as the door to the tent closes, plunging the space into soft darkness. 

He closes his eyes, trying to sort through his thoughts. He feels both less afraid and more afraid all at once. 

He shies away from examining his emotions too closely, because Jaskier knows if he does, he’ll feel relief that his plan didn’t work, which is a ludicrous response because if it had he could have avoided a lot of the misfortune of the afternoon. But at the same time, he escaped offering himself for a little while longer.

He knows he doesn’t have to worry about that sort of thing from Eskel any more, which is one less thing to worry about. But another thing to worry about is why Eskel is so kind to him when he doesn’t expect any compensation in return. 

Jaskier could let his mind go in circles tormenting himself, like he did last night. But this time he chooses to get some rest, and slips quietly into a fitful sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning/ summary: while helping to cook dinner, Jaskier burns himself accidentally, leading to him spilling some food. This triggers him, making him believe he is about to be punished unless he offers himself sexually to Eskel in the hopes of appeasing his temper. He tries to touch Eskel repeatedly in his panicked state, even after being told to stop, but he is turned down. Eskel uses his hands to push him back, and also casts Aard to get him to move away. Eskel is at no point angry with Jaskier, and he helps tend to his injuries and calm him down afterwards. 
> 
> *** 
> 
> This one was kinda rough, huh? At least Jaskier kind of got a (half) hug out of it. Let me know what you thought about the chapter in the comments! Next update should be midweek!
> 
> Also I can’t believe this is now over 16k, I’m just as surprised as you are that I’ve been writing so much.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Lambert return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than usual- the original chapter I had planned was getting too long, so I chopped it. 
> 
> Enjoy! This one is much more chill than the last, I promise.

The sound of Lambert and Geralt arriving back at their camp is what rouses Jaskier from his sleep after about twenty minutes of peaceful rest. He opens his eyes slowly, confused and unsure of where he is, but the events of the day snap back into the forefront of his mind after a moment. He sits up, wincing at the twin pains radiating from his wrist and his head, though both feel much better than they did before his cat nap. 

He doesn’t want to go out there. Gods, he really doesn’t want to go out there. But he doesn’t quite trust Eskel not to say anything about what happened, and at least if he’s there he’ll know what the damage is. It’s always better to see the threat coming, rather than something happening out of the blue that you have no way to prepare for. 

Jaskier takes a deep breath, and then goes outside to investigate. 

The witchers seem to have been very successful in their hunting, judging by the deer carcass that’s being carried into camp between them. Jaskier risks a glance at it, but his throat threatens to gag at the sight even from his position twenty yards away, so he swiftly looks elsewhere. Well. That’s good. Food shouldn’t be an issue now, thank the gods. Eskel sits placidly by the fire, and waves in greeting to his fellow witchers, who set down their kill near the edge of camp (where it hopefully won’t get blood on anything,  _ oh fuck  _ that’s a lot of blood) and approach the fire, smiles on their faces. 

Jaskier arrives at the fire at about the same time as Geralt and Lambert do, so he gets there just in time to see their expressions fade. 

“What happened?”Geralt snaps at Eskel, obviously displeased as he rushes closer. Jaskier freezes. The other witcher stands up, hands out as if to placate him. To Jaskier’s relief, the motion stops him and Lambert in their tracks, and they stand in place, though their restlessness is easy to see from their stances. 

“Why does it fucking reek of fear?” Lambert chimes in. 

Ah. Geralt’s cryptic conversation from their earlier ride suddenly seems much more logical. If a witcher’s senses are enhanced enough to pick out the scent of fear… well, Jaskier can’t imagine it’s a pleasant aroma to smell on a companion. Especially not one you’re sharing a saddle with for hours on end. It would rather shatter the illusion of willingness that Jaskier is trying his best to hide behind. The discord between those two tunes would be unsettling. 

It’s clear he needs to work on being less afraid, once he makes it through the current crisis unfolding in front of him, as he isn’t going to be able to fool them with his usual tricks. Not if his body is broadcasting his fear without his consent. 

“There was a bit of an accident while you were away.” Eskel says cryptically. It seems like he intends to keep his promise, to Jaskier’s great relief. 

“What sort of accident?” Lambert asks, looking around the place as if searching for a threat. 

“The sort with a cooking pot. Jaskier ended up with a bit of a nasty burn.” 

Jaskier pushes up his sleeve far enough for them to see the evidence for themselves, though he’s careful to conceal the light bruises further up his wrists that would invite more questions. It’s in his best interests to act as if nothing out of the ordinary happened while they left, aside from an unfortunate culinary accident. It’s not even a lie to present the afternoon that way, if you think about it. It isn’t out of the ordinary for Jaskier to ruin everything with a panicked overreaction. 

“I really am very clumsy-“ 

“That doesn’t explain the smell of fear.” Geralt’s tone is clipped, clearly sensing that there’s something not being said, and he steps closer to Jaskier, putting his body between him and Eskel. Jaskier would almost take it as an act of protection, but he doesn’t know what Geralt thinks he could possibly do to harm Eskel, unarmed and defenceless as he is. 

Perhaps it’s possessiveness. Geralt has nothing to worry about there, seeing as how Eskel thoroughly rejected even the possibility of anything happening between them. Jaskier is ready for Geralt (or Lambert, for that matter) to avail of him whenever he may wish. He doesn’t know whether to hope for or dread that kind of claim. Being a pawn in two men’s power plays is not a role he relishes, but he’s been cast in worse parts. 

“Jaskier and I had a misunderstanding. It’s all water under the bridge, nothing to be concerned about.” Eskel manages to project calmness, even as Geralt grunts and turns his back on him, motioning for Jaskier to give him his arm. Geralt’s touch is so light he can barely feel it as he manoeuvres Jaskier’s wrist to assess the damage, cradling his hand with infinite tenderness. If he notices the edge of the bruising peeking out from the cuff of his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about it.

Jaskier risks a glance at Eskel, and his relaxed stance allows him to keep still under the scrutiny. He knows these men much better than Jaskier, knows how to gauge their reactions. 

“What sort of misunderstanding?” Lambert moves closer now too, coming over to stand shoulder to shoulder with Geralt. 

Jaskier feels his heart rate quicken at being visibly cut off from Eskel by a wall of blood spattered witchers, fresh home from a hunting trip. Getting scared isn’t going to help anything. In fact it could be the spark that sets someone’s temper aflame, but he can’t help it. He wants to step away, gain some space to center himself, but years of conditioning to stay put while someone touches him keep him rooted to the spot. 

“Stop poking your snouts in places they aren’t wanted. If you want any more information about it, you’ll not be getting it from me. Come on, we need to prepare the meat you’ve so kindly brought us if we want to eat before dawn.” 

Geralt holds Jaskier’s gaze for a few moments, the expression in his amber eyes intense, before he drops his hand, releasing it without fanfare. Jaskier looks back, butterflies still in his stomach, but he must pass whatever test is in Geralt’s mind, because the man does move away. 

“I guess I’ll do the butchering.” 

With that, Geralt stalks off, presumably to do unspeakable (but necessary) horrors to the deer. 

Jaskier does not want to watch, so he lets his attention be drawn back to the other men, where Eskel is asking how the hunt went. 

“Not too bad, didn’t take us long to track one down. The only difficulty was getting close enough to actually kill the damn thing. Haven’t stalked in a while. Should’ve brought a bloody bow with us.” 

“Any sign of monsters to be wary of?”

“Not that we could see. Doesn’t mean they aren’t there.” 

Eskel looks contemplative, but not worried. “Isn’t that always the fucking case.” 

The men share a look, full of grim acknowledgment and dark humour, before they seem to remember their human audience.

“How are you feeling after your rest, Jaskier?” Eskel asks, changing the subject. 

“Much better, thank you.” Jaskier goes to grasp his hands together nervously, but he thinks better of it given his injuries and instead flexes his fingers. 

“And your wrist?” 

“Also better, but still sore. Think I’ve acquired a new scar.” Jaskier smiles wryly and shrugs, trying to get across his nonchalance about the idea, even if a part of him still hates it when he adds to the collection of permanent marks on his body. This time it wasn’t a punishment he earned, but the same cannot be said for most of the others. 

“Wish I got a nap each time I gained a new scar. You know how long I’d get to nap? Years, at least. Gods, it would be great.” 

Jaskier smiles at Lambert’s attempt at humour, and risks asking a question. “Do witchers not get to rest, usually?”

Lambert laughs, though there’s little humour in the sound. “Not as much as they’d like. Any time we’re on the Path we’re half sleep deprived, and then come winter we sleep the whole damn thing through.” 

“Is there somewhere that all witchers go, then, in winter?” asks Jaskier. He’s never heard of such a custom among witcherkind, but then he’s never heard all that much about witchers in general beyond their most gory exploits. 

“Not all witchers, but the ones from the School of the Wolf try to winter together, if possible.” 

Jaskier has many more questions about that (such as can a squishy human be brought along?) but Geralt chooses that moment to come back with a handful of now carefully sliced venison. They look like the juiciest cuts- backstrap and rump, if Jaskier knows his butchery. Which let’s face it, he doesn’t, but he thinks those are the right terms. “How do you want these cooked?” 

“It'll take too long to stew them,” Eskel sighs. “Here, put them on this to spit roast.” 

Geralt hands the venison over, before walking away towards the carcass to continue carving away the usable meat. Lambert rises, muttering something about going to wash the blood off his hands. 

Eskel takes the opportunity of them being somewhat on their own to question him again. 

“How’s your head?” 

“Still hurts, but it’s just a dull ache. I don’t think it’s a concussion, I’ve had those before.” Jaskier keeps his voice light. He’s telling the truth, his head doesn’t hurt any worse than it does after a slap to the face or a box around the ears, but regardless he doesn’t want to bring attention to an injury that isn’t explained by a boiling pot. 

Eskel nods, trusting his judgement. “We‘ll keep an eye on you anyway, lad.” 

Jaskier asks if there’s anything he can do to help, but the witchers have it handled, and he gets to sit idly watching from the side lines. He’s relieved, because though buoyed by his earlier rest, he still feels drained. That could be the after effects of weeks surviving on his own, though. It’s easy to forget how little time he’s actually spent with the witchers. 

Eventually he’s handed a bowl of steaming hot food- the vegetables he and Eskel had prepared earlier have become a sort of rustic soup, with the now roasted venison resting on the side of the bowl. At this point, Jaskier is pretty sure no one would care if he started to eat immediately, but he waits until everyone is assembled around the fire before he lifts a piece of venison with his fingers, placing it in his mouth. Jaskier wants to moan at the taste, salty and with a hint of smoke from the fire, but he doesn’t want to draw the wrong kind of attention. He settles for eating another piece. 

Conversation flows around him, the tension from earlier seeming to have been dropped. Jaskier lets his eyes unfocus as he stares vaguely in the direction of the fire, stomach full and eyelids drooping. 

“I think maybe our delicate flower should go on to bed.” Even half asleep, Jaskier can hear the laughter in Lambert’s voice. It doesn’t feel mocking, despite the diminutive nickname. 

Jaskier makes an effort to sit up from his slumped position, trying to at least look more awake than he feels.

“Go on, we’ve another long day tomorrow. Go get some proper sleep.” 

Jaskier nods, and makes the arduous journey from the fire to his bedroll, slumping gratefully into its comforting embrace. He sits up long enough to kick off his boots, placing them haphazardly by the entrance, and worms his way under the covers. 

After a moment, he worms his way out again, and removes the topmost fur still in place from his earlier nap. He folds his borrowed blanket, placing it neatly on the other bedroll. He doesn’t know if someone else will be joining him, and while he had the protection of Eskel’s express permission earlier, he doesn’t fancy being woken up by a witcher angered by a thief stealing their bedding. 

It’s not quite as cosy in his bed without the additional layer, but Jaskier is so tired he doesn’t mind. Even the thought of sharing with another person, and the unknown quantity that represents, isn’t enough to occupy his mind and distract him from sleep for more than a handful of minutes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do cherish each comment I get on this, I’m still so overwhelmed at the response.
> 
> Next update will be the weekend!


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier stumble through another conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I will start or end a chapter without someone sleeping or waking up, I swear. But today is not that day. 
> 
> I’m sorry this is a bit later and a bit shorter than I intended. Life was kind of rough for me the last few days, but the comments and feedback on this were a bright spot. So thank you. 
> 
> Enjoy!

He wakes when someone enters the tent. Jaskier can tell whoever it is was trying to be quiet, and doing a fair good job of it too, but he’s too conditioned from years of being on his guard not to wake. He turns over to face the space carved between the two beds, peering towards his feet- there isn’t enough light to make out much detail, but even in the dark Geralt’s head of snow white hair is distinctive. 

Jaskier stays lying on his side, unsure what to do, but Geralt beats him to making a move, noticing his attention and pausing awkwardly in the entrance. He clambers inside before he lets the fabric go to drape shut behind him. “I didn’t intend to wake you.” 

“It’s okay.” Jaskier shuffles until he’s sitting up, knees drawn up and arms resting on top of his legs. “Are we to be bedfellows for the night?” He aims at levity, paints a smirk on his face, but he’s pretty sure he misses his mark by a mile, since Geralt doesn’t so much as quirk his lips in response.

“I wanted to be the one to sleep in here. If that’s alright with you.” Geralt’s speech is stilted, his body language more wooden than usual. Jaskier doesn’t know whether to read nervousness or anger into his posture. 

“Of course, Geralt.” Jaskier rushes to reassure him. He has no ability to reply any other way, even if he wanted to. He watches Geralt start to undress, first disarming himself and placing his swords between them and the entrance. Jaskier feels a shiver of fear tread down his spine as his hands work at his clothing, but Geralt only removes his leather brigandine, revealing his shirt underneath. A silver chain catches the light around his neck, though any charms or lockets attached are hidden in the folds of fabric against his chest. 

“Lambert snores, and Eskel tosses and turns. I was worried they would keep you up when you need your rest.” 

Jaskier doubts the quality of his rest was a main concern of the three witchers, but it’s a very pretty lie. 

“Are they on watch outside?” he asks, mostly to keep his fears distracted. 

“No, we don’t usually do watches, only if we think there’s a threat. One of us would wake if there were to be a problem normally.” 

Jaskier feels oddly guilty at the thought of depriving the men of sleep and their beds last night. Especially after Lambert’s quip about being tired. He suspects the group are on their way to their winter retreat. Not that they’ve said so, but the winter is drawing nearer day by day. That must mean they are at their most exhausted point in the year, and the most in need of rest. 

“And you, do you plan to keep me up, dear Witcher?” Jaskier forces his voice to become lilting, teasing, bright with humour. Even though he feels nothing of the sort inside. 

“No. But I wanted to ask you a couple of questions, if you’re willing.” 

Jaskier nods, though his stomach is like lead. He suspected this would happen. Now that it is, he doesn’t know how to feel about it, or how to react. He can’t lie, not to Geralt who seems to have a side gig as a clairvoyant, and not to someone in a position of power over him. Not about something so important. 

Oh, little white lies are okay, usually, as a response to certain questions. They slip off his tongue almost without trying. 

_ “Are you okay?”  _

_ “You like that?”  _

_ “You want more?” _

Lying is not an option here. Jaskier doubts those are the sorts of questions Geralt is about to ask. 

Geralt sits down at the end of Jaskier’s bed, body at right angles to his, though he turns his head to look at him. Even disarmed and dis-armoured as he is, his figure is imposing at such close proximity in the small space. A hint of horse wafts off him- he must have fed or tended to them on his way here. Jaskier’s eyes have adjusted to the light, what little there is, so he can just about see that Geralt’s expression is serious. 

“Did Eskel use a sign on you?”

The silence is tense. How? How did he know? Jaskier was so careful not to draw attention to anything but the burn. Did Eskel say something after he’d gone to sleep? 

“Geralt, I don’t-” Jaskier babbles, not even sure where he’s going with his sentences before Geralt interrupts. 

“I felt it. When we returned to camp. Magic, it lingers. Sometimes you can catch a hint of it, like an aftertaste, or an echo. Our medallions are silver, they pick it up,” Geralt’s hand goes to his chest, toying with the chain. “Especially if it’s strong. Eskel is the most skilled magic user I know who isn’t a mage. So the echo was stronger.” 

Jaskier supposes with the speed at which they knew something was wrong in the first place that it was a fruitless endeavour to try to hide what happened. At least Eskel kept his promises. 

“Yes, he used a sign on me.” Jaskier could have lied, said Eskel used his magic on something else: a monster, a creature, an animal- hell, the fire, he did use magic on that one- but he doesn’t want to be caught in another trap. Not if Geralt already knows the answer. 

“Which one?”

“I- I’m not sure, Geralt.”

“Can you try to remember?”

“I think he said  _ Aard, _ but I don’t know-”

Geralt stops him, seeming confused. “Aard is used to stun and disarm opponents. It would have hurt you, left you disoriented and with a painful headache.”

“I do have a headache, I suppose.” Jaskier admits softly. 

Jaskier isn’t sure why these details matter. He tries to follow the common threads running through Geralt’s behaviour, but it’s confusing- the witchers don’t follow any moral codes or social conventions that Jaskier is used to. He concentrates on the fact that he didn’t want Eskel to hurt him, and that he’s angry something happened he doesn’t have knowledge or control over. 

Okay, there’s a narrative that could make sense in there. Geralt likes to control things, to be informed. Perhaps Geralt wants to make sure he was properly put in his place, properly disciplined, in his absence. Perhaps he means to reinforce a lesson if deemed necessary. 

“It isn’t okay for him to have hurt you, Jaskier.”

Is this that possessive streak coming to light again? Gods, that’s going to be  _ exhausting  _ to manage deftly. Jaskier still has limited experience with and information about the other witcher involved in all of this, Lambert, and that makes it hard to gauge how he’ll fit into this. Geralt seems so cut up about even one companion having any control over Jaskier. He doesn’t look forward to being the mouse caught between several cats. 

Or wolves. 

Best to placate for now, anyways. “Eskel didn’t harm me, Geralt” 

Geralt looks at him, calling him on his bullshit. “I saw the bruises. I don’t want you to think that just because Eskel is a witcher and my brother that I wouldn’t kick his ass if he was hurting you.” 

Jaskier has no idea how the fuck to interpret that. For one thing he didn’t know they were all brothers, but that makes as much sense as anything, he guesses. 

The thought of being the cause of a rift in the group is horrifying. A small selfish and self-preserving part of Jaskier wonders if he could manipulate such a rift to his advantage, cleave it open wide enough to fit himself safely inside. With lesser men, he probably would have tried it, but even the thought of doing so now, to these people, makes him feel ill and ashamed. 

Another part wishes that Jaskier wasn’t the sort of person who always needed to find a protector, but could instead protect himself, but he isn’t delusional about his lot in life even if he resents it. 

Mostly, he feels adrift at the sort of loyalty Geralt’s words hint at, the compassion and protection being so freely offered to him. Of course the price of security would be steep, but a part of him wants to collapse in relief at only having to answer to one of these men, even if it’s the White Wolf himself. 

“I won’t let him if you don’t want to allow it.”

Geralt makes a noise of frustration. “It’s not a matter of me allowing it. Fuck. No one should be allowed to hurt you. Even me. If someone does, kick them in the balls and run as far as you can.” 

Jaskier’s heart clenches, but for once it isn’t in fear. The statement is so at odds with every thought in Jaskier’s head that it draws a strangled noise from his throat that he half heartedly covers with a cough. 

“He isn’t hurting me, didn’t I mean. I- he, I misinterpreted something he said and we had a disagreement. But he didn’t hurt me,” Jaskier pauses, then adds “And I didn’t hurt him either, I swear it.” 

Geralt hums. Jaskier doesn’t know how to interpret it. 

“Okay. I believe you.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier sighs in relief. 

“But if you tell me something did happen, and you want help, I’ll believe you then too.” 

Geralt moves away a few scant feet, going through the motions of getting ready for bed. Jaskier lies back down, heartbeat loud in his ears, and turns restlessly until sleep claims him. 

They rise early once again. Morning passes in a haze, the now-familiar humdrum not occupying much of Jaskier’s attention. He knows the rhythm to expect: waking, dressing (he doesn’t need another bath quite so soon), breakfast, packing up camp. 

Breakfast is still a novelty, even if Lambert burns the stale bread they’ve got with them while attempting toast. Jaskier is even encouraged to have a second round of toast under the ruse of it needing to be used up, which he does, though he knows one of the others could have easily eaten it. There’s also a detour from the usual route to get his wounds checked by Eskel, who applies more of the same salve as before. 

Geralt hovers nearby during the process, but he doesn’t interrupt. It’s hard to tell, but there doesn’t seem to be any tension between the two of them. They’re both quieter, maybe, but any words they exchange seem good tempered. Geralt must have decided to trust that both Eskel and Jaskier aren’t a hazard to one another, which takes a heavy weight off Jaskier’s mind. 

The weather gets steadily colder over the course of the day’s riding. Jaskier rides with Eskel this time, on his black purebred Scorpion. They follow the path of the river, skating alongside the water and the forest’s edge. Jaskier tries to picture a map, but he doesn’t quite know where along the river they are. He supposes it makes sense to follow it northwards toward Daevon, in any case. 

The river becomes narrower as they travel; it’s noticeably thinner after maybe three quarters of an hour of riding. With the same amount of liquid travelling in a smaller area, it flows past at an observably accelerated rate, the water crashing and thundering into the rocks of the riverbanks. The noise drowns out any conversation, what with Jaskier’s poor human hearing. 

The journey is quiet with Eskel, both of them mulling over the incidents of yesterday in their own heads rather than talking to each other, but it isn’t unpleasant. Scorpion is a larger horse, by a hand or two, and it doesn’t feel so cramped to share a saddle. Jaskier counts his blessings that he has some distance from Geralt, for now. 

The discussion with Eskel yesterday was confusing, yes, but he did at least state his current and future intentions very clearly. If they were hurtful, well that was something Jaskier needed to get over. The discussion with Geralt? Jaskier doesn’t know what to make of that. He doesn’t understand anything about what Geralt wants or thinks or believes.

Events replay in his head on a loop, despite there being no more information to be gleaned, until just before sundown. They stop at a clearing, or a cove really, surrounding a small waterfall. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, regardless of the fact that Jaskier knows there must be thousands of its kind dotted about the Continent. 

Despite the force of the water running downstream, it seems like a peaceful place to lay their heads for the night, and they dismount to begin making camp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts, dear hearts.
> 
> Edit: Next update will be...midweek? Sorry I can’t be more concrete about it!


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An eventful night at camp for Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy! Not sure if this one needs trigger warnings? But I’ve put a description in the end notes for anyone who wants/needs it!

The evening is quiet, and uneventful, for a change.

The tent is set up in a mostly flat spot, sheltered from behind by the cliffside that curves around into the waterfall. The spray of the water doesn’t quite reach the heavy canvas, even if the air feels much damper than it did at last night’s camp beside the river. Jaskier imagines the sound of the water will be comforting to fall asleep to. 

The fire roars happily, fed steadily by the healthy pile of wood stacked by Jaskier’s feet and gathered by Jaskier’s hands. It feels good to contribute to the group, even if his back is sore from stooping down to gather firewood, and the burn on his wrist throbs if he bends it too sharply. He's had to do more chores with more substantial injuries, though, so he really shouldn’t complain- even in his own head. 

Parts of Jaskier’s mind can’t help but be anxious, to worry that he’s not doing enough to help. That he’s not enough. He’s scared that if he takes a moment to rest, to catch his breath, someone is gonna come to their senses and realise there’s plenty more he could be doing to contribute to the group. For the first time, Jaskier thinks that might be an irrational thought, and not an inevitable outcome. 

He’s been firmly banished from helping with the food, which would make Jaskier’s stomach squirm unpleasantly except for how no one seems to mind. Lambert has that task tonight, even after his mild disaster this morning, and to be fair he seems much more confident roasting meat than toasting bread. There’s several potatoes baking in the hot coals of the fire, and judging from the smell wafting his way the meal is going to taste delicious. 

Eskel sits calmly cleaning and sharpening a pile of swords, whetstone resting between his knees. He talks warmly with Lambert, idly discussing the weather and remarking on the various minor events of the day. Jaskier mostly listens quietly, while the two men chatter away to each other, only ducking his head shyly when Eskel thanks him sincerely for collecting the firewood. 

As best Jaskier can tell, the man has truly forgiven him for his horrendous behaviour yesterday. 

Geralt is off brooding, tending to the horses downstream from where everyone else is sitting. It concerns Jaskier, given their conversation last night, what the white haired witcher is thinking. The other two men don’t seem to notice anything unusual going on- and it’s true that Geralt likes to spend the most time with the horses anyway- but Jaskier can’t get over the feeling of needing to fix whatever is broken. He certainly feels broken inside, like he's standing on the edge of a precipice and he’s about to tumble over into something new and unknown. 

His mind is on the edge of some huge revelation, he can feel it, but he isn't ready to make the leap so instead he retreats into his usual coping mechanisms. Which include trying his best not to cause any more problems and anxiously worrying about the future. He tries to be subtle about it, but he can’t help how his eyes keep being drawn from watching the flames of the fire to Geralt, and his practised motions caring for the horses. 

Geralt rejoins them when the food is ready, and dinner passes quietly in a jumble of plates being passed and mugs of some weak ale being shared. Jaskier sips his carefully, cautious about being drunk around these men he doesn’t understand, but even so he isn't feeling bold enough to refuse completely and he quickly becomes tipsy. His tolerance for alcohol always was shit, even before he hadn’t drank for months and became the waif he is now. He feels scared, to be vulnerable this way, but in a distant way, like he’s insulated from the world around him. Jaskier has forgotten what it felt like to be drunk, how much less he cares about anything like this. It’s addictive. 

When they finally decide to call it quits, it seems that (after another fraught game of rock paper scissors) it’s Eskel’s turn to share the tent with Jaskier for the evening, to his relief, since he’s pretty certain that he’ll be safe with him. Geralt doesn’t seem to care all that much, beyond a brief glance at Jaskier as if gauging his reaction. But Lambert? Lambert absolutely mutters something under his breath that even a non-witcher can tell contains a lot of swearing and annoyance at yet another night out in the open. 

The layers of insulation the ale has built up abandon Jaskier all at once, and the fear comes rushing back to the front of his mind. Lambert is still the most unknown quantity in the group, and while it’s true he’s seemed to be quick to anger and quick to forgive up until now, Jaskier can’t forget the comment yesterday about being tired. The tent does look like it could house three people, albeit snuggly. Two of them have been deprived of their beds for two nights in a row, and for Lambert it’s about to be three. Jaskier's very existence deprives the others of comfort. 

Perhaps without the liquid courage, or the liquid fear coursing through his limbs, Jaskier wouldn’t have spoken up. But guilt is a powerful motivator. 

“I can sleep by the fire, Lambert. If you want- if you’d prefer to sleep in the tent-” 

“Oh, no, kid-”

Jaskier doesn’t even process the attempt to interrupt. “Please, take it,” he doesn’t know why it’s suddenly so important to him, but he feels hysteria crawling over his skin. “I know I’ve been rather spoiled since I started travelling with you, and I’m so grateful but I can’t- I don’t want any special treatment. Please.” 

The three witchers look like they want to argue with him, but perhaps they can smell his rising panic, because they don’t say anything to dissuade him. 

“Here, in that case, take my bed roll, Jaksier. You'll be too cold with your usual one.” 

Eskel throws him his bedroll from where it had been stashed, and Jaskier catches it with clumsy fingers, setting it down beside his feet. 

He stumbles into the trees to relieve himself before bed, the alcohol having run right through him as it always does when he drinks ale. When he comes back, Geralt has laid out their bedrolls alongside the fire, on one of the sides perpendicular to the water. 

Fuck, Jaskier didn’t really think through how he basically begged to spend a night with Geralt. After the man spent the whole day avoiding him, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was pissed off. At least he looks desperate for his attention. People usually like it when he begs, and appears more eager for their attention- they have all the power that way. He approaches tentatively, as Geralt pokes at the fire, playing at nonchalance. 

“Which one is mine, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly. 

“The one closer to the fire. ” 

“Are you sure? I don’t mind if-”

“Eskel was right, you’ll freeze out here if you’re not closer to the warmth.” 

Jaskier sits down awkwardly, pulling off his boots. His brain scrambles for a way to soothe the tension. “Well, I survived out here for longer without a fire and with a worse bedroll, so I’m sure I’ll be fine, dear Witcher.” 

“Hmm. Not this far north you didn’t.” Geralt sounds harsh, but with his back to Jaskier it’s hard to decide if he’s irritated or just tired. He says nothing, deciding to drop it before Geralt decides to prove a point and take away his bedroll. Maybe the witcher just wishes to go to sleep in peace. He climbs inside the fur lined layers and lies down, burrowing into the blankets and closing his eyes. 

Gods, he wishes this was his bedroll all the time. It is far superior to the raggedy old one he’s been using. He’d even share with whoever he has to if he can sleep in comfort like this, he thinks wryly, although that’s probably the alcohol talking again. 

He keeps carefully still when Geralt moves to lie down behind him. If he didn’t take advantage last night when they shared the same tent, surely he won’t now when they’re lying back to back with several layers of both clothing and bedding between them, but Jaskier can’t help the fraught pause where his flinch would be if he allowed those to happen anymore. 

He feels Geralt huff from behind him, but he doesn’t say anything, and the moment passes. Jaskier watches the comforting orange glow of the fire, and lets himself fall asleep.

***

He wakes to an unyielding body at his back and a hand clamped over his mouth. 

He gasps, both hands reaching for his face to try and claw free, but he can’t move them fast enough in the tangle of his blankets- which might be a blessing, actually. He wants to scream, but he knows in situations like this it’s best to accept whatever is about to happen, rather than risk attracting yet more people to join in. 

He can feel the hard plain of Geralt’s chest behind him, as well as the unmistakable outline of his morning wood pressed to his lower back, one of his legs hiked up to cover Jaskier’s legs and keep him thoroughly pinned. His heart thunders against his ribs. 

Geralt hisses for him to be quiet, breath close to his ear, but Jaskier can’t help but to struggle in his grasp even when he knows better. Tears begin to roll down his cheeks, and his eyes search the area around him wildly, not landing on anything in their panic.

“I need you to stay still, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier nods as much as he’s able, and then goes as still as he can, screwing his eyes shut tightly. The sound of Geralt’s voice is barely audible over the rush of the waterfall behind them, and the sound roars in his ears. 

He didn’t expect this from Geralt, not unprovoked. He can’t help the fine tremors that wrack his body, but he hopes that won’t count against him, since it’s an involuntary reaction. His hand is hot as a brand across his face against the cold morning air, and Jaskier’s wrist twinges from its place hidden in the blankets at the reminder of the sensation. There’s a thin strip of his skin exposed to the cold damp of the earth below them, where their bedrolls have been disturbed by Geralt’s movements. He focuses on that tiny patch by his hip, trying to ground himself by categorising each piece of grit and stone piercing into him. 

“She’ll go away if we don’t startle her, just keep still.” Geralt’s voice is urgent, but again he doesn’t raise it above the background noise of the river. If he wasn’t speaking directly into Jaskier’s ear, he doubts he’d be able to hear him. 

Huh? That sentence doesn’t make any sense, and it takes a moment for his sleep-addled brain to process. Jaskier furrows his brows, opening his eyes slowly. This time, they land almost immediately on a large brown bear on the other edge of the clearing, two small baby bear cubs trailing behind. 

Oh. 

Jaskier suddenly understands what’s happening. He doesn’t know if the actual threat is worse than the one he’d assumed. He’s certainly more afraid of one of them, and in his heart of hearts he knows which, but he can’t admit which even in his own head. 

Geralt doesn’t let go of his face, obviously too worried about any movement, but he relaxes his hand, just resting it against his skin rather than gripping tightly as he seems to sense Jaskier won’t do anything stupid. His thumb gently wipes away the trail of tears where he can reach them on one side of his face. 

They stay lying like that, both of them breathing shallowly together, eyes tracking the bears’ movements. It’s almost comforting, having a witcher so thoroughly shield him with his body, if Jaskier forgets about the deep pit of terror in his stomach. It takes maybe five minutes of sniffing along the tree line, but Geralt’s proved right, and eventually the bear walks away again, disappearing downriver towards the way they’d come yesterday.

It’s another tense few minutes before either of them dare to actually move. Geralt slowly lowers his hand from Jaskier’s face, and removes his leg from where they’re tangled together. Jaskier takes the opportunity and rolls away, moving awkwardly to sit up. He frees his hands, hastily swiping at his face, not daring to look at Geralt. 

“I’m sorry.” Geralt’s voice is quiet, as if Jaskier is as fragile as spun sugar. 

Which maybe he is, but he can’t afford for anyone to know that, lest they take joy in watching him dissolve into nothingness. So he musters as much false cheerfulness as he can, which isn’t much, and puts on as brave a face he can manage. 

“Sorry for saving my life? I should be thanking you for saving me from such a terrible beast.” Jaskier gives Geralt a watery smile. 

Geralt seems to see through it, as always hard to deceive. “There was no other way to make sure you didn’t startle the bear into attacking.” 

“Of course. I understand.” 

Jaskier does, truly. It was the most logical thing to do, to avoid a fight. The gods above know that he uses the same tactic often enough. But his body doesn’t appreciate that, and he can’t stop himself from shaking, or halt the nausea rising. He feels disconnected from reality. Still, it’s important that Geralt knows he’s grateful, and he doesn’t want him to catch on that he’s afraid of anything more than the family of bears passing through. 

“Thank you for keeping us safe, Geralt,” he says sincerely. 

He’s sure Geralt can see he’s not okay, but before the man can articulate anything, Eskel and Lambert appear, obviously roused by the sounds of voices. 

They flit around camp, concerned, as Geralt explains what happened, which he does succinctly. They seem surprised to have seen a bear this late in the season, but not overly concerned. Jaskier supposes one family of bears isn’t much to phase a witcher, never mind three of them. 

The morning continues on. Jaskier responds in the right places. He answers questions and tells whoever’s asking he’s fine when they talk to him directly. He helps to dismantle the camp yet again, doing whatever jobs need doing and that his feeble human body is capable of completing. He eats the hard tack and cheese that’s passed to him as breakfast while the others load up the horses. But he doesn’t really perceive much around him. 

Even being told he’s riding with Lambert doesn’t pierce through his daze, he simply rides along quietly. Lambert asks him to sit behind him in the saddle, more comfortable with navigating without having to peer around Jaskier’s head, and it’s much easier to just check out of the situation with his arms resting loosely around Lambert’s waist and his face hidden behind that broad back. 

He hasn’t been this shaken in a while- okay. That’s a lie. He’s this shaken basically all the time. But it doesn’t stop him feeling awful and it doesn’t stop him from being frustrated at himself for not being able to cope with anything. It doesn’t matter how much he resolved to himself to try and get better, he keeps failing. More importantly, he keeps making a calamity of himself in front of these capable men, proving himself a fool that needs constant protection like a babe. 

He can't help but be aware of how time is slipping through his fingers, how little of it he has left to impress them before they make it to their destination and cut him loose like the dead weight he is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning/summary: Jaskier wakes from sleep with Geralt restraining him, because of the threat of a wandering bear- he does so to stop Jaskier’s panic causing it to attack, but Jaskier thinks he might be assaulted and is shaken by the experience, even while unharmed. 
> 
> ***
> 
> I totally chickened out of writing an actual monster, but I’ll get there eventually, I promise. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter, if you feel like it! Next update will be the weekend again.


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier stumbles into yet another disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is hopefully thrilling and dramatic and not just...out of character for everyone involved. Warning in the end notes if you need it, dear hearts. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter, it’s a lil longer to make up for being a lil late.

After a day spent berating himself for his pitiful reaction to the incident this morning, Jaskier resolves to be as helpful, obedient and agreeable as possible in order to apologise. His companions don’t deserve for him to be afraid of them, not when Geralt almost certainly saved his life this morning. Gods above, they collectively keep him alive with their food, protection and shelter every day. In the face of that kind of debt, what Jaskier was so afraid of should have been freely given to them as their right.

He shouldn’t be quivering at the mere thought. Nothing had happened that he should have panicked over. While Jaskier’s conscious mind knows that, his subconscious is having trouble understanding. If only he could rid himself of his ridiculous anxieties, but alas life isn’t so simple. 

In an attempt to make up for a day where he’s surely appeared to be sullen and withdrawn, he makes an effort to include himself in conversation over their evening meal. He spends a lot of the evening laughing at Lambert’s terrible jokes and nodding along when Eskel launches into another insightful life lesson. He thinks he might be being a little too earnest- his laugh a little too loud, his attention a little too intense, but he chooses to embrace the clumsy honesty rather than feel embarrassed. 

He tries hardest with Geralt, since he’s the one he fucked up with most recently this morning. He’s not all that successful, since the witcher mostly sits by the fire and... broods, but he does manage a few halting conversations over the course of the evening. Jaskier counts that as a success, for now. One that leaves plenty of room for improvement, but that just gives Jaskier a clear objective for the future. 

He’s not sure if Geralt realises his panic earlier was not just from their ursine visitor. It’s hard to judge how obvious the cause of his fear was- it felt obvious to him, but then Geralt was preoccupied with making sure they weren’t murdered by a startled and angry mama bear. Jaskier hopes that he has no idea why he was afraid, because at least then he has a hope of working towards offering himself without fear and Geralt believing him. If he worked out how badly Jaskier reacted to even the implication of sex happening between them, well. It wouldn’t exactly stroke the witcher’s ego, would it? 

He doesn’t argue that night when he’s instructed to sleep in the tent, nor does he kick up a fuss to have to share with Lambert. He isn’t sure he’s capable of kicking up a fuss about anything. The surprising thing is that he doesn’t need to, either. True to Geralt’s word, Lambert is a terrible snorer, but aside from that he turns his back on Jaskier and ignores him in favour of sleep, which is confusing but also a relief. Jaskier doesn’t get much actual rest, but it’s still a better night’s sleep than he ever got while travelling alone. Jaskier tries to make his mind cling on to that fact. 

When he steps outside in the morning, it’s noticeably colder outside than it has been before, and his breath puffs out into the air ahead of him like clouds. Jaskier pulls his cloak around him tighter, and hurries towards the fire, where he can see Eskel is already awake and portioning out porridge for breakfast. He takes a bowl gratefully, sitting down beside him to eat quietly. He doesn’t know where Geralt is, but if he had to guess he’d assume he’s with the bloody horses again. 

“Sleep okay?” Eskel asks, the question surprisingly sincere given how simply it’s worded. 

Jaskier nods into his porridge bowl, trying to swallow faster so he can reply verbally. “I did, thank you.” 

“Lambert’s infernal racket didn’t keep you up?” Eskel manages to convey years of suffering in his voice, and when Jaskier glances at him he can see a knowing smirk playing on his lips. 

Jaskier smiles shyly. “No, he wasn’t too bad.”

“The ‘too’ in that sentence is doing a lot of work.” 

There’s a lull in conversation, not entirely uncomfortable, but Jaskier feels the urge to fill it nevertheless. He eats his breakfast silently, mulling over what to say. He couldn’t argue last night about the sleeping arrangements, but perhaps he should make the effort to apologise this morning. 

“I’m sorry that I’ve kicked you and Geralt out of your beds. I hope sleeping by the fire hasn’t been too uncomfortable, in the cold.” 

Judging by how close together the witchers’ bedrolls are, and how close they are to the fire, Jaskier would bet the cold was very uncomfortable for them last night. 

“Ah, it’s alright, Jaskier. It’s easier to keep you safe while you’re with us if you’re not out in the open.” Eskel reaches across the space between them to squeeze his shoulder firmly. Jaskier leans into the contact, but he can’t help but feel guilty about what Eskel’s words imply. Even if kindly worded, it’s plain to see that his presence is a burden on the group. 

“I’m sorry I’m such a...liability. To you. I know you didn’t ask to travel with me.” 

Eskel hums, clearly considering his response carefully.

“Well you’ve certainly made what would have been a long and monotonous journey a lot more interesting, I’ll say that much.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what way to interpret that- whether it’s an insult or a compliment, whether the tone is fond or resigned. 

“Plus it’s always good to have an extra pair of hands to help out.” 

Jaksier takes that as a gentle hint, and asks if there’s anything he can do to help, which it turns out there is. The rest of the early morning passes in a blur, bouncing from one task to the next as they prepare to keep moving onwards. 

They make a good pace, riding for most of the daylight hours yet again. By nightfall, Jaskier feels exhausted, even though he didn’t do anything but sit on a horse all day. A warm meal helps somewhat, but even so a weariness sits in his bones. It’s probably the last oh...twenty years of his short and miserable life catching up to him, Jaskier thinks to himself darkly. Trust him to finally find something _good_ and decide now was the time to fall apart. 

He tries to fake his way through dinner, but to his own ears his attempts to be charming are lackluster at best. His heart just isn’t in it today. The others don’t call him on it: after all, he hasn’t managed to be all that charming up until now, has he, so what do they have to compare his behaviour to? But the memories of what would have happened in the past as retribution for such a poor performance haunt Jaksier anyway.

His purpose has always been to entertain in whatever way deemed appropriate, but these days he can’t seem to find the strength nor the skill to fulfil that requirement of him. Even though these men might be the most deserving of it he’s ever met. He hopes they see that he’s trying, even if by trying he’s making it worse. 

Tonight, he’s sharing with Eskel, which means at least he doesn’t have to be on his guard too much. He’s already worked hard for the man during the day completing chores, and he knows Eskel doesn’t _want_ anything else from him. 

His exhaustion drags him into slumber before he means to let it. The next thing he’s aware of is the sound of birds, singing quietly from their perches in the dark trees above. Jaskier lies there, listening, hoping that their song will lull him to sleep again if he holds still enough, but his mind has woken up too fully to allow it and he can feel the tension building in his body the longer he stays still. 

He ends up sneaking out of the tent near dawn, since this unrelenting restlessness has overtaken his exhaustion.

The camp is calm and peaceful as he approaches- the fire is burnt down to glowing embers ahead of him, the forest is quiet at his back, Lambert and Geralt are huddled together to the side. Geralt opens one eye as Jaskier walks quietly past, but sensing there’s no danger in the still morning air and completely incurious as to why Jaskier is awake, he closes it again, going back to sleep. 

Jaskier rummages as quietly as he can manage, searching for his own clothes from the neatly folded pile of spare clothing nestling in one of the saddle bags, and (after a moment’s thought) grabs everyone’s waterskins. He might as well be useful while he takes the opportunity to bathe undisturbed. 

He makes his way toward the river banks, trying to ensure he’s paying attention to where he’s going in the semi-darkness. The area is wide open, so he’ll see any bears coming, hopefully, and have time to play dead. He’ll also see any witchers coming, which will give him time to get any unwanted bursts of fear under control. The ground is rockier at the river’s edge, and covered with a layer of slippery moss which transitions into tufts of knee high reeds in the water itself. He treads carefully to avoid stumbling on the slimy surface. 

Jaskier bends down to fill the waterskins, figuring that doing that first is more hygienic for everyone involved, although the water is flowing fast enough that it will probably wash any of the filth from his body downstream pretty quickly. The water encircles his wrists, forming bracelets of ice as he dips his hands to fill the skins. 

He sets them carefully to the side, out of the mud and dirt and far enough back that they aren’t in danger of falling in. He strips out of his clothes, cloak first, then boots and stockings, then his shirt and breeches. He keeps his underclothes on, hoping to preserve at least a shred of dignity in case anyone comes looking for him, and wades out into the water. The current is stronger than he thought it might be, but he plants his feet firmly beneath him, and that seems more than enough to keep him steady. 

Jaskier wishes he had soap, like he did last time, but he wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to take any without asking. Still, even getting himself clean in the water without any feels wonderful. The temperature shocks his system enough that it acts as a release for some of his anxiety- his skin tingles with the cold, throbbing in time with his heart as his circulatory system valiantly attempts to pump his blood quicker and keep him warm. The itchy, restless sensation from before lessens, and he feels alive. 

A hand grasps his ankle and pulls him off his feet with surprising force. 

Jaskier splutters, the breath knocked from his chest by the sudden contact with the icy water, and he desperately tries not to inhale a lungful of it in his panic. The world tumbles head over heels, up and down becoming meaningless labels in the confusion, at least until he hits the riverbed. Less than ideal as, you know, he needs to breathe, but he knows where he is now. 

It’s hard to make out with the river stinging his eyes, with the bubbles flurrying past his vision, but Jaskier only knows of one monster that attacks like that out of the water, and it’s one every child on the Continent knows to be on the lookout for. A drowner. Fuck, how stupid he is to have got himself in this position. 

He tries to yank his ankle free from its slimy grasp, and even succeeds for a few fleeting moments, just long enough to scramble backwards towards the banks. He makes it to the surface for a precious gasp of air before the creature is on him, grabbing both his ankles now to yank him under once again. 

The cold doesn’t feel comforting any more, but frightening, another overwhelming sensation amongst the cacophony of information spinning through his mind. It sears his skin, and saps the strength from his muscles, making it harder to fight. 

The drowner seems to have no goal but to keep him under the water, which at least means he doesn’t have to fear losing a limb as well as death, though its claws slash at his skin in its excitement to keep him in place. He supposes its desire to drown him makes sense, given its name. Jaskier tries to keep moving towards shallower waters, but his energy is quickly becoming depleted in the face of the relentless strength of the drowner. Every time he makes any progress it seems to take only a moment before the creature has undone it all. 

He manages to free himself for a couple more frantic breaths but he can’t even keep above the surface long enough to scream for help, and the air does little to ease the burning sensation in his chest. 

Gods, what a truly stupid way to die, after all he has survived. His panic is starting to feel distant, the screaming in his lungs far away. Maybe it would be easier to just let the drowner take him. A dark part of him wonders if his new companions would come to his aid if he had been able to call for help, or if they would have left him to his moronic fate, glad to be rid of the burden. Jaskier’s resolve to keep fighting weakens, and his struggling starts to slow. The creature seizes the opportunity, dragging him deeper into the water. 

A slash of silver cuts through the water, narrowly missing both Jaskier and the drowner. The creature startles, loosening its grip on Jaskier’s ankles. A warm, strong arm snakes around him and grasps around his ribcage, tugging him towards the surface and away from the danger of the drowner. Jaskier tries to coordinate his limbs enough to help, but the cold has made them numb and stupid. 

The drowner isn’t surprised for long though, and it latches back on to him, fighting to pull him back, but whoever it is that’s decided to try to save him doesn’t let him go either. Jaskier feels like a piece of rubber, stretched between two opposing forces. 

He coughs, water spilling from his mouth as his head breaks through the water. His hair is plastered in his face, obscuring his vision, but he stares in horror as the blurry shape of the drowner appears, its grizzled green features looking even more disturbing given the questionable liquid that seems to seep from its pores. The smell of rotten flesh is strong, and unavoidable. 

Before it can lunge again, Jaskier is dragged firmly backwards, until he can feel the riverbed under him again and manages to stagger to his feet. He finally sees that it’s Geralt who’s come to his rescue, the man intently focused on the drowner, a glare on his face. He’s dumped unceremoniously on the shore, safely out of the reach of the creature. Before he has a chance to even process that fact, Geralt is wading back into the water to finish the fight. 

“Stay the fuck back!”

Jaskier retches, trying to get his breathing back under control, and stays the fuck back. 

The witcher keeps his hand poised beside his sword, but rather than reaching for the blade he casts a sign with the other hand- judging on the flames that suddenly flare, it must be _Igni._ The drowner screeches, stunned by the fire and obviously in pain from being burned alive, but as soon as Geralt lets the sign drop the creature recovers and lurches at him again. 

The process repeats, Geralt luring the creature into the shallower depths where he has the advantage. It never manages to grab like it had Jaskier, thank the gods, but it doesn’t seem to be significantly weakened either, despite the advantage _Igni_ obviously offers the witcher. 

Jaskier begins to appreciate how close to his own death he came. There’s no way he could have pried that thing off himself before he ran out of air. 

The other two men appear behind him, drawn by the racket they’re surely making. Eskel crouches in the dirt beside him, patting him roughly on the back and helping to clear the last of the water from his lungs. The thwacks hurt, but they do make it easier to breathe. 

His whole body throbs unpleasantly. Muscles he didn’t know existed are now demanding his notice, pain flooding him from every direction. Drops of water drip from his hair, travelling down his back and forward into his lap where he’s hunched over. They leave pin pricks and trails of freezing pain in their wake that make him even colder as the wind catches them. 

Lambert shouts to Geralt, ready to step in and help, but he shouts back he doesn’t need it for “one bloody drowner” so instead he grabs Jaskier’s cloak, and wraps it around his shivering body. It quickly becomes soaked through by the river water and silt that covers Jaskier, but at least the wind doesn’t reach him so much. It also does the job of hiding his scrawny, mostly naked frame from view. Jaskier can’t bring himself to care about his modesty anymore, but he is grateful for the warmth. 

The drowner appears distracted by the shouting and general commotion at the shore, and it takes its attention off of who is currently fighting it. Geralt seizes the small window of opportunity he has, and stabs it barbarically with his sword while it wails in pain at the flames licking its skin. It stays stunned long enough for the blade to do its job, and its screeches cut off abruptly. The drowner’s corpse splashes into the water, spraying Geralt with gore and gunk and icy cold liquid. 

There’s a moment of blessed silence, nobody quite sure what to do.

Geralt stomps away from the body, his feet appearing in view. A puddle forms around him where he stands.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” 

Jaskier whips his head up, taken by surprise by the venom in Geralt’s voice. His expression is hard, anger evident on his face. 

“Do you not have an ounce of common sense? Have you not heard of drowners and what they can do?” 

Jaskier would be upset about the level of fury being directed his way, but the worst part is that it’s justified. He hadn’t thought he’d be in danger; he had only wanted to get clean in peace. _That’s what you get for trying to keep your body to yourself. Don’t you know you aren’t entitled to privacy?_

“I have- but I didn’t think- I’m sorry, Geralt-“

Geralt’s patience is worn thin, and he obviously has no time for stuttered apologies or hollow excuses. He wipes his sword on the ground, removing the worst of the grime, before sheathing it angrily. 

“Damn right you didn’t think! A child would have thought more about their actions.” 

If Jaskier had any warmth in his body, his cheeks would heat in embarrassment, but he doesn’t so instead he looks blankly ahead, tears rolling down his pale face. 

“You’re lucky there was only one of them, and that I heard your flailing from the camp. Even a witcher can be overwhelmed by a hoard of them. Someone could have got hurt!” 

Eskel and Lambert say nothing, either as caught off guard by Geralt’s outburst as Jaskier is, or simply agreeing with his assessments. Jaskier’s lungs burn, and his ankles throb, and he thinks the words ‘could have’ aren’t all that accurate. But then he thinks about how maybe he doesn’t count as a person who it matters when they’re hurt. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You could have been killed, Jaskier. We could have woken up to find you dead, do you understand that?” 

The image flashes in his head, of someone discovering him like that. Jaskier should feel horror, but instead he just feels tired. He’s slipping into that far away place in his mind, the key turning to unlock that place where nothing can reach him. He realises at once that maybe he’s already been there for a while, becoming aware of how everything feels so incredibly distant. He doesn’t really think about the next words out of his mouth, relying instead on instinct. 

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” 

Something in Geralt seems to deflate at that. He breathes deeply, bringing his hands to cover his face. Jaskier continues to stare straight ahead, his eyes not seeing anything in front of him. 

“Geralt- you need to calm down. Anger isn’t helping anything.” Lambert is the one to speak- Jaskier would find it ironic that he’s giving anger management tips, but he’s not capable of that right now. Lambert moves towards Geralt, creating a barrier between him and Jaskier. 

“You need to get warmed up, come on.” Eskel helps him stand, bearing most of his weight, and they slowly stagger away from the river. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning/summary : Jaskier decides to go off on his own to bathe. He encounters a drowner, and is nearly drowned by the creature before help arrives. He briefly considers giving in rather than trying to fight. Geralt is angry, and berates him for being careless, mostly because he’s still anxious and high on the adrenaline from the fight. 
> 
> ***
> 
> I nearly cut off at the point where Jaskier is attacked, but I couldn’t be so cruel to you all. Let me know what you thought of this one! Next update will be midweek again :)


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the drowner: part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should be a bit calmer, after the excitement of last time, if any of you are worried about me being too mean to Jaskier. 
> 
> Thank you for bearing with me being a bit late, this chapter was a bit of a struggle to write.

Eskel has to practically scoop Jaskier into his arms to get him away from the water’s edge and back to camp, he’s in such a state. He isn’t crying anymore, if only because he doesn’t have the energy to spare, but his mind races, thoughts running far ahead of him. Oh fuck, he’s really fucked up. Aside from almost dying, he’s managed to _piss off a witcher._ Jaskier wasn’t aware of the absence of anger from the group until now, but the difference is startlingly clear. Jaskier shudders to even remember the intensity directed his way. Events haven’t exactly been smooth sailing up to now without adding volatile emotions into the mix. 

The next moment he is aware of is when Eskel helps him inside the tent, urging him to sit down. Jaskier frets about ruining the bedding inside with the river water still dripping from his body, but he acquiesces at Eskel’s repeated requests. Rain patters against the roof above them, which softens any sounds from outside the small bubble surrounding them. 

A thrill of fear goes through him, the sharp shock of it tingling all over despite his detached state, when Eskel takes his cloak from him and tells him to remove his wet underclothes. He thought he didn’t have to fear that from him. He thought he was _safe._ The thrill fades somewhat, though, when all the man does is patiently help him remove the cloth clinging to him without a word, even averting his eyes from staring at Jaskier’s nakedness, after seeing how he can’t gather the strength nor coordination to do it alone. Eskel helps him into a dry tunic and guides him to get under the covers of the nearest bed, which happens to be the witcher’s, not Jaskier’s. He piles another thin blanket from Jaskier’s side of the tent on top of the mound already covering him before shuffling outside awkwardly, telling Jaskier he’ll only be a moment. 

Jaskier shivers violently in the empty tent. Somehow he paradoxically feels colder now than he did back by the water. Which is stupid, because it’s warmer by leaps and bounds in here, he’s got dry clothes on, and blankets galore to cover him. He can feel that the air itself is much warmer against his skin, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The shivers don’t care, and they wrack his body anyway even when he curls into as small a ball he can manage, hugging his knees tight to his chest to maximise the amount of him covered by blankets. It hurts, the shivering. It’s almost as painful as being cold in the first place. 

He has no idea what is going to happen next. 

The whole incident with the drowner feels unreal, like some sort of horribly vivid nightmare, one from which Jaskier almost didn’t wake. The details are dull in his mind, memories only half formed in his panic, the events hazy when he attempts to recall them from his current blank state of numbness. 

The only events that stand out are the horrifying moment at the bottom of the river, when he accepted he was going to die, and the vitriol thrown his way by Geralt while he gasped for breath in his sprawl on the cold, muddy ground. Everything else slips through his mind, like water running off the waxed fabric of the tent overhead. 

He didn’t expect such anger, such passionate fury, from Geralt. Although maybe he should have, since the echoes of a miraculous temper have been present in his actions before now- his inability to let go of the incident with Eskel and the fire springs to mind. It’s Jaskier’s fault he didn’t anticipate a situation like this. 

The anger at his endangerment of the others: well, that he can make sense of. Jaskier tries his hardest, but he’s never been known for his responsible nature, and when living as part of a group that failing can have consequences for everyone else. If there had been more of those creatures hiding in the waters, if Geralt wasn’t quite as quick thinking, if Jaksier’s splashing in the water had drawn the attention of some other monster hiding in the shadows… someone else certainly would have been hurt. The thought makes him queasy to even consider, and he knows he’ll deserve any retribution about to head his way for his carelessness. Jaskier can only hope they’ll still permit him to travel with them to the next town, and not abandon him outright. 

And yet, that doesn’t tell the whole story of the situation, does it? Because Geralt hadn’t only been angry about the danger to everyone else, he had been angry about the danger to Jaskier. He never would have guessed anyone would be angry about the possibility of his untimely death. He supposed that it would be unpleasant to wake up to a corpse in the water, if he was easy to spot, or that it would be irritating to have to delay to search for him if he was not. And, it’s true that the group would have been down one willing companion, sure. Maybe it’s that problem from before, of Geralt not liking there to be damage on Jaskier’s body from anyone but him, his possessive streak. But they won’t even make use of him, Jaskier thinks to himself incredulously, so that can’t be the reason either. They can’t be that upset about the loss of another mouth to feed and another body to cart around on their horses, can they? Why would it matter? 

Jaskier doesn’t know, and the unease from not knowing sits heavily in his stomach, curdling the fear already settled there. 

The flap to the tent pushes open. Jaksier’s eyes dart to see whoever has been sent to speak to him. Lambert is the one who appears, carefully grasping a steaming mug in one hand. He passes it to Jaskier, waiting expectantly for him to take a sip. To Jaskier’s surprise, it’s just a mug of warm water, which he finds a bit odd to drink on its own. Regardless, the warmth is comforting to hold in his cold hands, and soothing to swallow. The heat radiates outwards from his throat, slowly infusing into the rest of his body. 

They sit in silence for a while, until long after the mug is empty and Jaksier’s shivers have slowed down to the occasional shudder. Lambert’s expression is blank, any emotions carefully hidden. Jaskier tries to maintain the same sort of facade, but beyond his ever present fear he can’t even name the emotions he would be attempting to hide. He stares into the empty mug in his hands, relishing how the little warmth it has left heats his fingers where they cradle it gently. 

“How are you feeling?” 

Jaskier isn’t sure how to answer that, so he focuses on his physical state, assuming that’s all Lambert cares about anyway. 

“Warmer. Thank you.” 

“Warm enough for me to have a look at your ankles? They looked pretty scratched up earlier, but if you’re still cold...” 

Jaskier doesn’t really want to leave the comfort and safety of his nest of blankets behind, but he can’t mess up even more by refusing such a simple request. He swings his legs out of the safety of the blankets instead of answering aloud. 

Lambert takes hold of the one closest to him, and twists it slowly to inspect the marks left by the drowner. There are bruises forming rings around his ankles that stretch up to his calves, which Jaskier knows will bloom into dark marks given some time. At least they’ll match the fading set around his wrists. On top, there’s also a few light scratches, hardly deep enough to break the skin. 

“Hmm, nothing major...you want me to bandage these up anyway or leave it?”

Jaskier winces at the thought of using up even more supplies, even though his ankles ache unpleasantly. “You can leave it, s’okay.” 

Silence falls again. Jaskier isn’t sure how to break it, or if he should. He tucks his feet back under the layers still cocooning him. 

“Look, Geralt acted like a fucking prick back there. I hope you know that.” 

Jaskier’s eyes widen. Lambert doesn’t seem phased by the reaction, even as he shifts to look at Jaskier straight on. 

“It’s true- Eskel’s out there giving him a talking to right now about it. I already did, but well. He’s older than me- my opinion doesn’t sway him much. But he’s a fucking idiot.” 

Despite the dressing-down Geralt has just delivered him, Jaskier feels the need to stick up for him. It wasn’t a completely unjustified outburst. 

“He saved my life-“ 

“Yeah, and in the process of saving you he dumped you on your ass to die of exposure rather than by drowner, and then he screamed at you for having the audacity to need his help. What a hero,” Lambert laughs humourlessly, shaking his head. “Like we all haven’t been overwhelmed by an unexpected monster at some point.” 

Jaskier can’t imagine a single drowner has ever caused a witcher quite so much trouble, but he’s in too much shock to say anything. 

“Look, he’s just...Geralt’s not used to travelling with humans. None of us are. We forget you’re a whole lot more vulnerable than us, and it scared him to be reminded of that fact. Especially since it was his fucking job to check the area for any dangers, and he must have missed our disgusting, slimy friend.” 

Things start to slip into place. Anger that is actually a front for guilt can be some of the most explosive. Not that Geralt has anything to feel guilty about- the blame for Jaskier’s troubles rest solely on his own shoulders- but he can see why the man might react that way in the heat of the moment. Still, Jaskier needs to clarify what Lambert’s said a bit more, worried he’s misinterpreted what the other man is trying to say. 

“So you and Eskel…” Jaskier swallows nervously. “You aren’t mad at me?” 

“No. It was stupid of you to go bathing alone, don’t get me wrong, but we’re more angry at ourselves for not knowing you needed help sooner.” 

Jaskier already knows he was stupid to try for some privacy, so that comment doesn’t phase him. But he can’t help but press the issue again, to give voice to his earlier fears. 

“So you aren’t- you don’t want to...You’re not going to leave me here?” 

“Why the fuck would we do that?” Lambert says, confusion plain in his voice. 

He doesn’t want to give them ideas, but Jaskier can’t back down now. 

“As punishment.” 

“You’re not a child, Jaskier, we’ve no right to punish you like one-“ 

Geralt’s words from earlier burn in the front of his mind, taunting him with the fact that at least one of the witchers thinks he has less sense than a child. A punishment wouldn’t be out of line, in that case. 

Lambert continues, unaware of Jaskier’s thoughts. “Even if we did, leaving you behind to fend for yourself out here in the wilderness would not be an option we’d consider.” 

A part of Jaskier unclenches at that, a weight finally lifted. Maybe despite all his failings, he really has earned a place with these men. Maybe someone finally wants to keep him. 

“We promised we’d get you safely to the next village, we wouldn’t abandon you now.” 

His stomach sinks again. Of course. That is the arrangement they came to. It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal to realise they still mean to leave him behind. 

“I’m sorry if you’ve been worried that we’d do that. I know I can be a surly bastard but-“

Jaskier hides his hurt with a smile. “No, no, not at all. I just thought maybe this time would be too much for you to put up with, as difficult as I am...but I’m so grateful to keep travelling with you. Thank you, Lambert.” 

“Ah, don’t mention it, Jaskier. It’s good to have another person around.” 

Jaskier’s answering smile is a bit more certain this time, a bit less wobbly. 

Lambert rises to his feet, backing out of the tent with a surprising amount of grace before leaning back through the entrance. He sticks his hand out, motioning for the mug, which Jaskier hands over. 

“I’ll leave you to get dressed. Come meet us at the fire, when you’re ready.” 

He allows himself a moment to compose himself, to get his swirling thoughts back under control, but the exercise proves futile, as always. He sheds the layers of blankets still draped around him, and reaches for the pile of clothes in front of him. He dresses slowly, donning one item at a time, as if his life depends on putting them on perfectly, before he accepts he can’t stall any longer, and makes his way outside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thought I’d mention that I don’t have a beta or anything for this, it’s just me, so I’m sorry about any typos or anything- I go through and catch as many as I can but I’m sure there’s still lots I miss. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter- I’m excited to read what you think, as always. Aiming to update at the weekend again, as normal.


	11. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the drowner: part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This chapter was difficult to get out- I ended up rewriting chunks and I’m not entirely happy? But I could get stuck here forever so I’m just gonna move on. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy anyways.

The rain has slowed to a light drizzle in the time that Jaskier has been inside, though larger drops still filter through the canopy above to drip on him, the remnants of the rainwater collected by the leaves overhead soaking into the shoulders of his tunic. He keeps expecting to shiver, full bodied and harsh like before, but the change of clothes, layers of blankets and hot water have done their job. He feels the chill in the air, which is to be expected when waltzing around in the rain this late in the year with no cloak, but not that all consuming numbness from before. Only the slight shake of his hands betrays him, though that’s probably more to do with his nervousness than the cold. 

He’s not sure what time it is, exactly, but it must be past the time they usually set off for the day. No one seems to be in a particular rush, although Jaskier does note that the camp seems to be mostly disassembled aside from the tent and the cookware in use at the fire. Though it seems Lambert is going to take care of the tent, given that he rises from where he was sitting idly and brushes past Jaskier to head in that direction. 

Eskel smiles broadly as he reaches where the witchers are gathered, calling out to him enthusiastically. “Jaskier! Glad to see you looking better, lad. There’s actually colour in your cheeks!” 

Jaskier huffs in response, embarrassed and unsure what to say- a combination of emotions which he’s certain make the colour on his cheeks bloom brighter. He cannot imagine what Eskel must think of him now, after the sorry state he was in earlier. He cringes to recall his catatonic condition, and how he had to be helped to dress like an unruly child. Has he ever managed to be anything but a hindrance to this man in the short time he’s known him? And yet Eskel continues to be unwaveringly kind, for no good reason that Jaskier can see. 

“Here, you want some?” 

He holds a ladle of porridge aloft over the pot, gesturing towards Jaskier while somehow managing to avoid spilling anything. His stomach clenches on nothing, empty after the many hours that have passed since his last meal. He’s definitely hungry enough to eat- he’s always hungry in the mornings, even though he never used to have the privilege of eating this early in the day before. Factoring in all that energy he just expended trying not to die, he feels almost woozy with the need to eat, but he doesn’t want to deprive anyone else of food. He knows the witchers could practically eat a whole pot each on a normal day. Geralt could probably use some extra calories to replace those used to fight off a monster at dawn. But the offer of food is so alluring. He hedges his bets. 

“Yes please, Eskel. If- if everyone else has had enough?” 

Eskel doesn’t bother to answer his hesitant question, and neither does anyone else, already ladling a heaping portion out into what’s become Jaskier’s bowl. He takes the offered food, holding the bowl with great care- he doesn’t want to risk dropping it with his unsteady hands. He allows himself to bring the bowl to his face, cupping it gently and inhaling to savour the slightly sweet smell- Eskel always adds a bit of honey for flavour when it’s his turn to make it- while risking a glance at where Geralt sits eating his own food on the other side of the fire, afraid to be caught staring. He needn’t have worried- the other man is staring at the fire, gaze intently focused as if the rest of them don’t exist, while he eats his own meal. The fury from before seems to be gone, but he still looks far from happy. 

Jaskier swallows nervously, porridge oats sticking in his throat. He wouldn’t be happy either if he went to the effort of saving an incompetent buffoon from drowning only to have his brothers shout at him afterwards for his attitude. All while the buffoon in question is pampered like royalty. He can’t help but to brace himself for more of that smouldering anger to be thrown at him again. 

A few quiet minutes pass, no sounds aside from the crackling of the fire and the scraping of spoons. 

“Here- it’s not completely dry, but we did our best,” says Lambert suddenly from behind him, walking over and draping Jaskier’s now dry cloak around his shoulders before Jaskier can even turn his head. “Any scorch marks are Eskel’s fault. He’s the one who tried to speed up the drying process with magic.” 

Eskel makes a noise of indignation. “If there are any scorches, Jaskier, they’re the fault of the efforts of our  _ less experienced  _ magic users.” 

Jaskier sets his bowl down on his knees to pull the cloak around himself more securely. He can’t see any scorch marks, though it’s not like they’d show against the dark fabric and the dirt stains already there, so he assumes they’re both just pulling his leg. He thanks Lambert anyway, and Eskel too, for their thoughtfulness. He feels warmer already with the extra layer of fabric to protect him. 

The absence of any sort of thank you to Geralt for the much greater task of saving his life sits uncomfortably with Jaskier, but he doesn’t know how to even broach the topic. Or if he even wants to. Part of him thinks it would be easier for everyone to just pretend this morning didn’t happen. 

He keeps his attention firmly on his food, since doing so requires little interaction with anyone else. Despite the attempt to lighten the mood by Eskel and Lambert, there’s an awkward tension in the air that settles over everything. Jaskier can feel his heartbeat in his throat; he keeps his posture rigid, wanting to be prepared for whatever is about to happen. The uncomfortable silence stretches languidly between them, until Jaskier feels like it will encompass them all forever. 

Lambert catches his eye across the fire, dipping his head minutely once he sees Jaskier is looking, before he turns and slaps Geralt on the back of the head hard enough that he chokes on his drink. 

Jaskier’s heart skips a beat.

Geralt turns to glare at his brother, expression outraged, but Lambert just glares back until finally he backs down, gritting his teeth.The witcher looks in Jaskier’s general direction, but he won’t meet his eye. Instead his eyeline is focused just to the left of Jaskier’s head, as if he’s staring at the trees behind him. It’s a move he recognises, from when he feels too intimidated to look at someone directly, though why Geralt of all people would be intimidated by  _ Jaskier _ of all people is a mystery. 

Geralt clears his throat as a precursor to speaking. “What I said. Before. It was wrong.” 

Despite Lambert’s talk in the tent, Jaskier hadn’t expected to get anything as concrete as an admission of guilt from Geralt. He hopes his shock doesn’t show too badly on his face. 

“I was angry. At myself. For not realising where you were going when you walked past.”

Jaskier winces in sympathy, acutely aware of how guilty he currently feels about even the possibility of hurting someone. Geralt must feel horrible, before his brothers decided to have a go at him. But of course the situation is different, because it wasn’t Geralt’s fault that Jaskier got hurt. 

“You couldn’t have known I would be such an oblivious and incompetent fool as to need rescuing while bathing.” Jaskier’s voice only trembles slightly while speaking, a fact which he is unreasonably proud of. 

Geralt frowns at that, as do Lambert and Eskel beside him. Jaskier cowers slightly at their obvious displeasure, not sure where he misstepped. He stares at the bowl in his lap, toying with his spoon. 

“No, but I should have been there to help before things got as bad as they did. I was angry, and I took it out on you, and you didn’t deserve it.” 

Jaskier says nothing. Despite Geralt of all people saying he didn’t deserve his anger- the one person who knows what Geralt was thinking at that moment, he can’t believe he didn’t deserve it. 

“Even if you had deserved it, the way I went about it in the moment wasn't fair. And I’m sorry.” 

Jaskier doesn’t have the faintest idea how he’s expected to respond, but he feels compelled to speak. “It’s really quite alright, Geralt- I shouldn’t have been so reckless, I practically invited the attack so- so I’m indebted to you for saving my life. Again. I didn’t say it earlier but… thank you. For that.” 

Jaskier trails off awkwardly, but he forces himself to actually look at Geralt as he speaks. Geralt’s face is pained, as if he wants to say more but is unable to force the words out. He relates to the feeling, even if he usually has the opposite problem. 

“It’s nothing. The least I could do.” 

It seems like that’s the end of the conversation for now, since nobody chimes in to say anything else in the wake of Jaskier’s stunned silence. 

He will never understand the sincerity of these men, the kindness they extend without a moment’s hesitation, their commitment to protecting him when he has done nothing to deserve such a privilege. It’s not something he’s ever encountered before, and he isn’t likely to encounter it ever again, and that makes his heart ache to be allowed to stay with them indefinitely, even as the chances of that happening dwindle to nothing. 

Eventually, once everyone’s breakfasts have been eaten and the dishes have been cleaned ready to be packed away, conversation picks up again. This time it’s only discussions of the mundane details of getting ready to travel, to Jaskier’s immense relief. 

They’re back to travelling again in no time, riding fast as always to make up for the delay. Their break at midday is even briefer than usual, because it isn’t long since they set out- it’s just long enough to answer the call of nature and allow the horses to take a drink. Jaskier feels restless, stuck in a saddle all day with hardly any break from it all, but he understands the need to keep pressing onwards, and he wouldn’t dream of complaining when he’s the reason they were delayed in the first place. But he can’t help that all he wants to do is drag his heels and prolong this entire experience just a little longer. 

By nightfall, his restlessness has grown, building to the same unbearable level as it had reached this morning before everything went horribly wrong. The last hour before they finally stop for the day he’s itching to get up and walk around, to move, to do anything but sit and stare straight ahead as the landscape whips past. He tries to fight the static buzzing under his skin, mindful of the consequences, but he can’t help the urge to just  _ move.  _

When they do come to a halt, he jumps down from the saddle almost before they’ve fully come to a stop. He stutters out an apology for startling the horses, but it was all he could do to hold on as long as he did. 

He tries burning his anxious energy off by walking around their new base, under the guise of scoping out the area and collecting firewood, since that’s always helpful at least. Jaskier is careful to never move more than a handful of paces away from anyone else, keen to show that he won’t be wandering off like this morning. 

Eskel politely tells him to stop gathering wood when the pile he’s accumulated starts to teeter precariously to one side, proclaiming that they have enough for a bonfire, if they so desired. Jaskier takes to walking aimlessly from one side of the camp to the other, not even pretending to have a task anymore. 

Lambert soon gets tired of his pacing back and forth- or perhaps his idleness when there’s plenty still to be done- and ropes him into putting up the tent with him. In all honesty, Jaskier is relieved to be given something to do, and puts his all into the task- laying out the thick tarp to cover the ground, draping the canvas over the frame, passing pins to Lambert to hammer and secure the tethers in place. In general acting as a second pair of hands wherever help is needed. Jaskier is inexperienced and clumsy, but it doesn’t seem to matter too much- the tent goes up faster with two people rather than one and his restlessness fades once given a useful outlet. 

Dinner is ready by the time the tent is complete, yet another simple but hearty dish. The meal is quiet, as always, but for once Jaskier doesn’t feel like this is a personal failing, or a problem to be fixed, but simply a natural state that the group peacefully returns to given enough time. He can’t quite understand why it feels that way, since no one thing has changed from last night to now- aside from a brief near death experience, but that can’t be it. Perhaps it’s Jaskier that is changing and adapting to these men, growing to understand what they expect from him. 

He isn’t a religious man, having not seen much evidence in his life for the gods being anything but malevolent and cruel, but Jaskier finds himself thanking them all the same as he gets ready to fall asleep that night, burrowing into his blankets as he stares at the roof of the tent. The contrast in how his day started and how it now ends feels like it could only be the result of divine intervention. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some growth? Finally? Jaskier is staring to feel safe...it’s a pity he doesn’t have much left of his journey.... :) 
> 
> Next update will be midweek, as long as things go smoothly. I can’t wait to see what you all think, reading your thoughts is so motivating for me when I’m writing ❤️


	12. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier’s last night in the wilderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I know it’s been a while and that I’ve missed what would normally have been a few updates, and I’m really sorry about that. My personal life got really, really rough right as I hit a bout of writer’s block, and it took me a little bit to find my feet. 
> 
> Every single comment I’ve received up until now has kept me going with this story, because honestly it’s one of the best parts of my day when I get to read what you all have to say. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, dear hearts ❤️

The trail doesn’t quite show signs of life, not while they’re still this far into the wilderness, but it is a definite trail now that they're following, not just a gap in the trees or a strip of land by the riverbank. Jaskier hasn’t managed to pinpoint their location yet- he’s never been this close to the border between Redania and Kaedwen before and he wasn’t exactly sure where he was when he joined the witchers if he’s being honest- but they must only be a day or two at most from the village the witchers agreed to take him to. 

Not for the first time, Jaskier wonders to himself why their journey is taking so long. There were surely closer villages than the one they’ve been aiming for this whole time, but perhaps this is simply the nearest one the witchers’ route already intersected. He can’t imagine they would have made any changes to their planned journey for some random human they acquired out of nowhere. Jaskier hadn’t had a reason to voice any complaints about the situation since it’s actually given him more time to try and convince the group to keep him. 

Not that he’s got any delusions about that happening after all the trouble he’s caused. He knows with how skittish he’s been around them- with how much he’s let fear control his actions- that if they really wanted a companion they could easily replace him with someone who’s much less hard work. It’s certainly what he would do in their place, though he doesn’t think he’s ever been in a position of power over someone to make such a decision. 

Jaskier just can’t quite bring himself to smother the tiny flame of hope he has deep down that they might want to keep him. 

Anyways, that’s not what he needs to focus on for right now. Right now, he’s getting a lesson in how to gut and skin a rabbit from Lambert. He’d cornered the man when he’d returned from hunting, pleading for him to teach him how to prepare the meat so that it would be ready to be cooked. Lambert, for his part, seemed mostly amused by his enthusiasm, but willing to be indulgent and talk Jaskier through what to do. Currently, they're sitting across from one another by the fire, the last of the afternoon’s sunshine casting long shadows around them as Lambert gestures with his knife where it is you have to slice to most cleanly remove its coat in one piece. 

The whole affair is threatening to make Jaskier’s last meal come back up, but he manages to keep control of his stomach. And to keep his grip on his freshly sharpened pocket knife even when the blood makes things slippery- and it makes things very slippery. Mostly he manages to maintain his composure because he doesn’t want to disappoint Lambert, to insult the effort he’s going to to teach Jaskier something. But he also won’t let himself give into his weakness because the ability to hunt food on his own is...an invaluable skill.

The thought of being able to be in any way self-sufficient keeps Jaskier from complaining about the gore- and there is so much gore for such a small animal. He ignores the nausea rising in his throat and tries to separate the cute and fuzzy and defenceless mental image of a bunny he has in his head from the mutilated carcass in his hands. The mutilation is mostly down to his lack of talent at this anyways. He smiles weakly at Lambert’s good natured teasing of his squeamishness, well aware that he wouldn’t last a day on the job as a witcher. 

Gods, even if he could manage to be just a tiny bit less reliant on the help of others to look after himself, that would be enough. Not to mention that if he had a more rounded set of skills to offer to a group, well. Maybe they’d actually want to keep him around. 

He’s gathered plenty of information from his time around camp up until now, just by the nature of the tasks he’s given to do and how much it seems a witcher has to know about everything under the sun in order to do their job. Jaskier is definitely more capable in a range of areas now than he was a few days ago. The repetition of their daily routine has allowed for a lot of time to learn and to practise what he sees, and Jaskier has always been a quick study when he needs to be. He now knows how to cook a few basic meals, if given access to the right ingredients. He can darn holes in stockings or sew loose buttons back onto shirts. He can even perform rudimentary first aid on himself or someone else, at least enough to soothe minor injuries or to ensure no one bleeds out before they make it to real help. That skill alone could help keep him alive depending on how bad the next group of people he stumbles across are. 

Ultimately, right now he’s still mostly useless, since it's not like he knows anything that someone here hasn’t personally taught him, but it gives Jaskier some hope that he won’t be quite as vulnerable in the future with a few more marketable skills under his belt. 

The rabbit tastes delicious when properly roasted for their dinner, good enough that Jaskier thinks he could put up with the ordeal of butchering a hundred more innocent bunnies if it meant he could eat like this all the time. It’s worth it too for the claps on the back he gets from Eskel, and the small, begrudging smile from Geralt, like he’s actually done something to exceed their expectations of him by not fainting like a complete fop at the first sight of blood. 

The evening passes slowly but not unpleasantly. If anything, Jaskier wishes this gentle contentment could be stretched to last longer, perhaps long enough to last the rest of his life. But he'd rather know how much time he has left, so he risks a question once there’s a suitable lull in conversation, after Geralt mentions needing to find a farrier in the nearest village. 

“How far are we? From the nearest village, I mean.”

Lambert huffs a laugh around his mug of ale. “Looking to be rid of us?” 

Jaskier’s stomach drops, and he stutters to correct himself. “No, no, not at all- I just wondered-“

“We’re not far- we should reach Glen Uaine tomorrow, barring any problems on the trail,” says Eskel, taking pity on Jaskier and his panic. 

Jaskier nods, looking down at his lap. He hadn’t realised they were quite that close, and he’s not sure what to say. The conversation moves on around him, the others seemingly unaware of how Jaskier withdraws into himself, lost in thought. 

Eventually the fire burns down low enough that its warmth does nothing to stop the frigid night air from getting to him. Jaskier tries not to react noticeably, since no one else seems bothered by the cold, and he doesn’t want to come across as a wimp. He pulls his cloak a little tighter, and holds himself a little stiffer to stave off any shivers, but it’s a losing battle, and eventually a shiver breaks through his defences. 

Eskel glances at him, a concerned look on his face. Jaskier tries to appear unbothered, like maybe the shiver was just a fluke, but another one hits him as Eskel watches. 

“Come on, off to bed with you, lad. We don’t need you catching a chill. Again.” 

He would berate himself for being weak, unable to handle it being a tad cold, but he doesn’t get a chance to protest much before he’s being bundled in a blanket by Eskel and ushered towards the tent. 

It’s colder in there in the short term, further from the fire and with only his body heat to counteract the cold, but it doesn’t take long before the small space warms up, especially not with the added benefit of the extra layers of insulation his bedroll provides. 

An indeterminate amount of time passes, long enough that Jaskier thinks he dozes off for a while, before the flap to the tent opens again, letting in a burst of icy air. To his surprise, both Lambert and Geralt climb inside, the latter dragging another bedroll with him. 

“Here, shuffle over would you?” Lambert pokes at Jaskier until he complies, maneuvering him and his blankets into the center of the small space when he doesn’t move fast enough. He goes willingly, if a little confused, using his arms to sleepily propel himself and aid Lambert in his quest to pull him into the middle. Geralt spreads his bedroll in the space left behind, fussing with the blankets until they’re arranged to his liking, while Lambert sits down behind Jaskier on his own bed to take off his boots. 

Less than a week ago, he had lain here, petrified at the very thought of a scenario like this, at the idea of sharing such an enclosed space with two witchers. The fear is still there, but Jaskier can’t imagine that now would be when Lambert and Geralt decide to break their celibate streaks, not when they’ve had ample opportunity to do so with him without an audience. A mean part of Jaskier’s brain reminds him of the men from his past that have preferred an audience, but he’s honestly too tired to listen to it. 

Some sleepy noise of confusion must make it past his lips, because Geralt finally stops his fussing and looks up, making eye contact. 

“The temperature outside keeps dropping,” he says, as if that explains anything. 

Jaskier thinks for a moment, but it’s hard when his brain just wants to go back to sleep. He can understand the need for all three of them to share the tent, but that doesn’t explain what the whole suddenly being manhandled around the tent thing was about, and his confusion must show on his face. 

Geralt rolls his eyes. “We’re both here to provide more body heat. You’ll be much warmer in between us.” 

Jaskier winces at what, quite honestly, would be a sleazy pick up line if delivered by anyone else. But a part of him can’t help but preen at how something as trivial as his comfort is being catered to and considered so carefully. 

“What about Eskel? Won’t he freeze?” 

“Witchers don’t feel the cold as much as humans do.” 

Jaskier thinks that’s bullshit- he’s no expert, but even he can tell witchers feel everything just as deeply as anyone else, they just don’t deal with the same long term consequences. He feels guilty about Eskel being left out in the literal and metaphorical cold, and his mind starts to work overtime, trying to find some solution that doesn’t involve leaving anyone on their own, but Lambert stops his worrying in its tracks. 

“He’s only taking first watch- he’ll be swapping out with Geralt soon, don’t worry.”

Jaskier frowns. “I thought you don’t usually put someone on watch.” 

“No, not usually,” Lambert agrees readily. “But human settlements tend to draw danger, and it’s better to be on guard.”

The two men share a look across Jaskier, and he gets the feeling they’ve both been caught out by letting their guard down before. Still, it seems counterintuitive that they’d be  _ less safe _ closer to civilization, and Jaskier can’t help but press for a little more information. 

“What kind of danger? Surely there were more monsters out in the wilderness we’ve just come from?”

“Huh, you’d be surprised.” Lambert flops backwards, getting comfortable on his side, back turned to them both. He glances over his shoulder to speak. “Humans tend to do things that are very good at attracting trouble.”

Jaskier blushes, not knowing whether to take that particular statement personally. If it was, it’s not like he can complain it’s inaccurate. He lies back down, wiggling in an attempt to fix where his bedroll has got all twisted beneath him.

“And you’re forgetting the kind of danger humans themselves can represent,” Geralt adds dourly, his body curling to face Jaskier’s in the dark. 

Jaskier can’t decipher his expression, even from his vantage point only a few inches away, but he tries to anyway. The pain he sees there feels familiar, but he can’t understand why he’s seeing it on Geralt’s face. After a moment, he gives up, unable to handle the intensity, and turns his head to stare at the ceiling.

When Jaskier turns his head back, Geralt’s eyes are closed, his face slack with sleep. It feels creepy to watch him when the witcher himself is unaware of being observed, though he can’t help himself for just a moment. If he wasn’t such a terrifying enigma of a man, Jaskier would find himself drawn to Geralt, to the honest handsomeness of his face. Genuine attraction isn’t something he’s had the luxury to experience...ever, maybe, but Jaskier feels an echo of it now, watching dark lashes flutter against pale cheeks. 

He would much prefer to sleep on his side rather than on his back as he is now, but picking a side to sleep on feels overly familiar no matter what side he picks. Jaskier resigns himself to being mildly uncomfortable as he concentrates on falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should be an...interesting read, we’re almost at the part that I’ve been trying to skip ahead to when writing for weeks at this point. 
> 
> I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep about updates, but at the very latest I’ll be back this time next week, fingers crossed.


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group finally reaches civilisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear hearts, I’m sorry it’s been so long. Despite my best intentions, life kept getting in the way of writing and it’s been much longer since my last update. I want to thank everyone who commented on the last chapter, because reading back over your messages was the only thing that kept me motivated enough to come back to this when the guilt at not posting threatened to be too much. I’m gonna try to work my way through replying to them all over the next couple of days. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the update ❤️

For a brief, blissful moment right when Jaskier wakes, the only things he registers are comfort and warmth, his body lax with sleep. He sighs contentedly, burrowing deeper into whatever the source of the warmth surrounding him is. 

A few seconds later, conscious thought unfortunately creeps back in and the peacefulness of the moment shatters, though Jaskier is careful to keep himself from tensing so that he doesn’t disturb anyone else’s slumber. 

He finds that he’s- rather embarrassingly- plastered himself to Geralt in the middle of the night, unconsciously seeking the warmth his body could provide. His head is pillowed on Geralt’s muscular but surprisingly comfortable chest, and the witcher’s arm is curled loosely across his back, his hand resting gently between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. 

Aside from the warm band of heat radiating from Geralt’s arm, Jaskier’s back feels cold, the chill in the air permeating the thin layer of the blanket. The witchers must have all swapped places around him while going on watch, but given the lack of snoring he assumes that Lambert is on watch while Eskel is asleep behind him. Judging by the change in temperature, Eskel has rolled away from them in search of his own space, meaning that Jaskier feels the cold more keenly without the extra body heat even with his clothing and the blankets and Geralt. 

Jaskier represses a shudder at the thought of riding on the back of a horse all day out in the freezing cold, but he knows that today is likely to be the warmest he’ll be for a while. After all, today is the day they’ll likely finally reach town, and he’ll be left behind to fend for himself over the bitter winter to come. 

Even though it means losing the extra warmth, Jaskier tries to extract himself from Geralt’s grasp, feeling vaguely guilty at his own body’s presumptuousness. But as soon as he tries to move, Geralt makes a disgruntled noise in his sleep, tugging Jaskier closer. Against a witcher’s strength he has no hope of winning, so he lets himself be moved into a more comfortable position, where less of his body is touching his actual bedroll and more of him is resting on Geralt. 

As much as Jaskier is ashamed of his neediness, he can readily admit that it feels nice to be held gently, even if the only reason it’s happening is because Geralt is unaware of their positions. Jaskier can’t remember when he was last held like this, without an ulterior motive besides an urge to keep each other warm. 

He closes his eyes again, pressing his face more firmly into Geralt’s chest and tamping down on the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him at even the thought of returning to his previous life. He’s been so focused on desperately trying to appeal to his companions to keep him that he hadn’t thought to consider the logistics of life without his witchers. 

There are a lot of problems he’ll need to solve once he’s left behind in whatever backwater hamlet they’re headed to. The most immediate concerns will be food and shelter- he came close to starvation last time, and he doesn’t want to make the same mistake twice, not when the changing seasons will make everything so much harder. So he’ll need money. Or someone willing to foot the bill in exchange for his services. 

Jaskier doesn’t relish the idea of whoring himself out again- and that’s what it is, even if he’s never directly accepted coin in return for sex. Nothing has been as clean or as simple as that. But he uses sex and his continued obedience to barter for protection. For safety. And what does that make him but a whore? 

Dread builds within him, at the thought of returning to that life, where every interaction is a transaction that costs him dearly. He is used to bartering away pieces of himself to get his basic needs met, his whole life has operated that way, but it doesn’t get any easier to bear. 

The routine usually dulls the ache of it, at least, but even that protection has been worn away by his time in the woods, away from other people and the minefields they represent. This rest has been a blessing, but it’s also going to make everything that comes after so much harder. His stomach churns unpleasantly only because he’s been allowed to go soft, because of the immeasurably kind treatment of these men. The nerves will fade once he learns to stop foolishly hoping for things to change. He’ll soon be back to negotiating terms and presenting the most alluring version of himself to entice others and it won’t even cross his mind to be afraid. 

Jaskier tells himself this over and over, willing it to be true through sheer repetition. Eventually, his mind stops paying attention to the words he repeats, the meaning worn away through his worrying, and his attention drifts to the steady heartbeat in his ear, regular and slow as Geralt continues to sleep. Without meaning to, he falls back asleep, the rhythmic sound enough to lull him into unconsciousness. 

The next time Jaskier wakes he’s alone, the combined weight of three bedrolls worth of blankets piled on top of him like someone (Geralt) was concerned he’d freeze without them, which makes a small smile stretch on Jaskier’s lips without his permission. The light tells him that it’s already past dawn, which at this time of year means that a good portion of the morning has already slipped through his fingers. Jaskier sits up with a start, thinking of how much will need to be done to get ready to travel, at how little he’s done to help. It only takes a handful of minutes for him to scramble into the rest of his clothing and stuff his feet haphazardly into his boots and go help with whatever tasks are left.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Jaskier can’t bring himself to speak much, not with the reality of returning to the real world looming over his head. His half awake panicking didn’t really help him to effectively organise his thoughts and come up with a plan. 

It’s not just him though. Jaskier isn’t sure if it’s their relative proximity to civilization that has the witchers on edge. It wouldn’t be a noticeable change to most people- Jaskier himself probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been paying such careful attention- but there’s a hypervigilance in their gazes, a stiffness in their postures that sets Jaskier on edge. 

The need to ask what’s wrong burns in his throat, but his own worries make him wary of rocking the boat, of ruining what is likely to be his last oasis of calm for the foreseeable future with any unwelcome needling. Jaskier is well aware that his senses are not as sharp as those of the witchers, so despite the fact he can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, it’s in his best interests to follow their lead. He stays as still and as quiet as possible, not wanting to draw any attention or to distract from their silent contemplation of the still morning. 

A tiny part of him too- a part that feels guilty for even existing- doesn’t want things to escalate to the point of him being  _ made  _ to keep quiet. While he’d forgiven Geralt for his outburst of anger all but immediately after the drowner attacked, his body can’t quite forget the full force of a witcher’s ire. Nor can it forget the countless times where he’s been slapped for opening his big mouth when his input wasn’t wanted or necessary. Jaskier would prefer not to trigger that kind of negative response. 

So he keeps quiet, and deals with the awkwardness by shovelling food into his mouth. When Lambert asks if he’s ready to go, he nods woodenly and climbs up on horseback without a word. 

The day’s ride is as miserable as Jaskier feared it might be- there’s a biting coldness to the air that sucks all the heat out of Jaskier’s bones, even though he’s sheltered from the worst of the wind by his position hiding the broadness of Lambert’s back. 

It’s dusk by the time they finally reach the sleepy town at the water’s edge that they’ve been aiming for this entire time, the road curving gently downhill the closer they get to a crop of buildings that make up the town. The river curves away from the town, but he can still the roaring of the water rushing over a waterfall near by.

Or maybe that’s just the sound of blood pounding in Jaskier’s ears. Given the late hour, there aren’t too many people about, but it’s the most people Jaskier’s been around in months, and it’s hard to keep himself from panicking. The sight of three witchers and a dishevelled human arriving in town on horseback is a shocking one that draws many stares and whispers from the locals, and Jaskier’s skin crawls at the unwanted attention. 

It’s difficult to make out in the semi-darkness, but from what Jaskier can tell, Glen Uaine is something between a town and a village. It’s larger than he feared it might be, with maybe thirty or so dwellings laid out in a roughly triangular shape bordered on each side by well-worn country roads. A few shops selling a variety of wares are scattered amongst people’s homes, and there’s an empty space located in the centre of the town that must serve as a market square. 

They dismount at the town’s solitary inn, located at one of the corners of the market square. Jaskier stands to the side awkwardly, unsure of his welcome now that they’ve arrived. He takes his bag as it’s handed to him by Eskel, and settles it on his shoulder, clutching the strap tightly while he watches the witchers organise their possessions, removing the saddlebags from the horses’ backs. 

Lambert and Geralt lead the horses towards the stables to the side of the inn, calling out to the stablehands to help them get the animals settled, voices harsher than normal as if they’re expecting a fight. Meanwhile Eskel heads towards the entrance of the inn, presumably to find the three of them a place to stay for the night. 

Jaskier hesitates, frozen in the middle of the street. He doesn’t have any money to buy a room for the night. Maybe he can convince someone at the inn to strike up a deal, allowing him to clean tables or sweep floors in exchange for food and a dry place to sleep. He could probably do without the food for a few days before it gets bad if it comes to it. And he doesn’t even need a real bed. If he could even negotiate a dry spot to sleep in the stables that wouldn’t be so bad- he has his bedroll after all. Though if the weather keeps getting worse, he might freeze- 

“You coming?” 

Jaskier is snapped out of his daze by the sound of Eskel’s voice. Before he can think of a response, Eskel is turning to walk away, and it’s all Jaskier can do to trail after him. 

The inn feels almost unbearably warm after a long day spent outside- Jaskier’s exposed skin on his face and hands burns unpleasantly as he re-acclimatizes to the heat. It seems like half the town must be inside, enjoying the warmth of the fire and a mug of ale after a long day's work, the place is crowded. A bard stands in the corner, strumming some well known ballads on a lute while he half heartedly sings along. On any other day, perhaps Jaskier would be disappointed by the performance, but something settles in him to hear music again after so long without any in his life except in his own head, no matter how ineptly it’s being performed. 

The innkeeper regards them wearily as they approach where she stands behind the bar, as if steadying herself for trouble at the sight of a witcher in her inn. The other patrons turn to not so subtly gawk at them, wanting to watch whatever show’s about to happen. Something in Jaskier bristles at their attention, though he stays standing obediently at Eskel’s side. 

“I don’t want any trouble, Witcher.” 

The rudeness of her tone is startling to Jaskier, but Eskel takes it in his stride, clearly used to this sort of treatment. 

“Neither do I, ma’am. We were only hoping to stay the night here. And to perhaps enjoy your hospitality for the length of a meal and a cold drink.” 

The woman seems appeased by the idea of acquiring their coin, even if she’s unhappy about the idea of them staying. Her gaze darts critically to Jaskier, taking in his haggard appearance. Her eyes linger on his wrists for a moment too long, and Jaskier looks down to see the edges of the half faded bruises which encircle his arms are visible where his sleeves have slipped down, as well as the shiny red scar from the incident with the pot. He makes eye contact with her for a brief second as she looks up again. Her eyes skitter away again as she refocuses on Eskel, and Jaskier looks to the floor, tugging absently at his sleeves to cover the marks up again. 

“How many rooms will you be wanting, then?” 

“Two twin rooms, if you have them, please. There are two more men travelling with us who will need a room of their own.” 

Jaskier turns towards Eskel, ready to argue with him- he can’t ask to share one of their rooms, not without any way to pay them back, but Eskel puts a hand on his shoulder to quell any protest before he can voice it, so he wisely keeps his mouth shut. 

They negotiate a price. Jaskier honestly can’t tell whether it’s a fair one or not, but Eskel doesn’t even try to haggle it down, handing over the money easily and pocketing the keys the innkeeper hands him in return. 

He asks for four portions of whatever special the cook has made today to be brought to them, before finding a table nestled mostly out of the way of the rest of the customers, over in the corner of the room.

Jaskier shuffles into a seat across from Eskel. Just as they’re sitting down, Lambert and Geralt appear at the door of the inn. They make their way across the room as the crowd stares at them either in awe or in fear, Jaskier isn’t sure. The men slide into place at their table, Lambert taking a seat on the bench beside Jaskier while Geralt sits beside Eskel. 

“Thank you. For letting me share a room with you tonight.” Jaskier can’t seem to express himself eloquently, but he hopes that the sincerity of his statement shines through. 

“Not a problem.” Eskel smiles warmly at him across the table.”We wouldn’t just leave you without somewhere to stay for the night.” 

The  _ not until tomorrow tonight, anyways _ goes left unsaid- rightfully so, since the voice saying it in Jaskier’s head is bitter and wholly unfair in its appraisal of the situation. It was never part of their deal that they would keep him, so it’s not fair for him to feel abandoned. 

“Yes well. I’ve taken advantage of more than my fair share of your hospitality.” Jaskier smiles, but even he can tell it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t want to assume.” 

There’s an awkward lapse in conversation after that, no one quite sure what to say. The three witchers share a glance with each other over Jaskier’s head, as if deciding who is going to be the one to bring a difficult topic up, to acknowledge the elephant in the room that is the fact now is finally the time for Jaskier to stop relying on their hospitality. 

“Actually, Jaskier, we wanted to talk to you about that.” says Geralt, his tone hesitant.

Jaskier is fairly certain his heart stops for the space of a few heartbeats, his mind panicking in several directions at once, but he meets his eyes across the table, knowing he owes them that much for whatever he’s about to hear. “Okay.”

“I know that we’re about to part ways, now that we’ve got you here in one piece, but well.” Geralt visibly struggles for words. “It just didn’t sit right with us to just leave you with nothing at the side of the road somewhere.” 

Jaskier’s hopes soar against his will. It almost sounds like...can he even dare to think it? It seems ludicrous, but maybe somehow he’s finally convinced someone he’s good enough. Maybe- 

Geralt places a leather pouch on the table between them, the bag landing heavily against the wood. The quiet sound of the coins clinking together seems deafening even against the rowdy background noise of the inn. Jaskier looks stupidly between the pouch and Geralt’s face for several seconds before the penny drops. 

Oh. 

“We don’t have much, but we thought this might be enough to tide you over while you get on your feet, once we leave you.”

Jaskier hates himself for the sinking feeling in his stomach. This is one of the most compassionate things anyone has ever done for him. Logic dictates that he should be ecstatic right now, his immediate concerns for his well-being solved. His sense of propriety dictates that he should refuse this gift, it’s too much. He can’t force himself to speak around the lump in his throat, but he shakes his head and tries to push the purse back across the table. Eskel’s hand lands over his, and pushes it back. 

“You’ve never shared much of where you’re trying to go- and believe us, we mostly know when not to pry at a touchy subject. You don’t have to explain anything. We thought at least if you had some money you could stay put for a bit, wait until it’s safer to continue your journey.” 

Jaskier feels torn. He doesn’t know what to do with the kindness of the money, nor what to do with the cruelty of being left behind. He surprises himself with the flash of anger he feels over the condescension of being left behind for his own good. As if there’ll be any true safety to be found here at the mercy of strangers. 

Something of the confusing swirl of emotions he feels inside must show on his face, since Eskel winces.

“In all honesty, we would take you with us if we could, lad, but where we’re headed is just too...dangerous, what with the worse weather about to set in. It would be our fault if you got hurt, and we wouldn’t be able to live with ourselves if something happened.”

Jaskier keeps his gaze focused on the money on the table, unable and unwilling to look up in case he falls apart. 

“Plus you’d go completely crazy, with only our ugly mugs for company all winter.” Lambert knocks him gently on the shoulder, attempting to lighten the mood.

Jaskier tries to gain control of himself, to pack everything he’s feeling up into a tiny box in his mind and focus on only gratitude. He lifts his head, squaring his shoulders determinedly before he speaks. 

“Thank you. Truly. I think this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. I don’t know how I will ever repay the debt.” 

Eskel reaches out to ruffle his hair as Lambert claps him on the back again. Geralt nods at him solemnly, quiet as always. 

Thankfully awkwardness doesn’t have a chance to settle, since their meal arrives just as their conversation ends. Jaskier savours the food, trying to remember to enjoy both the luxury of having a hot meal bought for him, and the feeling of a full stomach. Even with the generous gift afforded to him, he won’t be eating this well again for a long time. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only really half of the chapter I intended to write last time- I’m working on the finishing touches of the next part, so hopefully it won’t take me too long to get it ready to post! I promise that we still have a lot of story to go before we reach the end. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought, if you took the time to read this far. I adore every single person who’s ever given this story any of their time, you mean the world.


	14. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has an unwelcome encounter with another patron at the inn; Geralt discovers some new information about Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I’m back. I know posting isn’t quite as regular as it used to be, but I think I can keep to semi regular updates for now. 
> 
> This chapter comes with some extra content warnings- Jaskier has a tough time of it in this chapter, in a scene which definitely strays into the category of sexual harassment, though I can promise that it doesn’t escalate too far. I’ve included a more thorough summary in the end notes, if that’s something you need. Let me know if you think this isn’t accurately warned. 
> 
> I can’t wait to see what you think!

The four of them clear their plates of food quickly; the prospect of a proper bed means they don’t want to linger downstairs at the bar for too long, not when combined with the weight of the eyes of the other patrons lingering on them distrustfully. 

One group of men in particular, seated a few tables down, can’t seem to help themselves from sneering and making disapproving remarks that even Jaskier can hear snatches of. The gods only know what the witchers can make out of their conversation, but judging from the tenseness of Lambert’s shoulders, their comments are ignorant, ugly and crude. It doesn’t surprise Jaskier, he’s seen their type before, but he does feel bad that their presence is ruining their last evening all together. 

Jaskier manages to ignore the men for the majority of the meal, but he makes unintentional eye contact with one of them right as he follows Eskel towards their room for the night, and the hot flush of shame the look inspires in his gut is an unwelcome sensation, if not an unfamiliar one. The man smirks cruelly, as if he knows exactly the effect he’s having on Jaskier, but he doesn’t allow his steps to falter, not with Geralt and Lambert at his back. He can’t help how his cheeks go red hot in an instant, though. 

The room is small, but clean, with two narrow beds taking up most of the space. There’s only a thin strip of floor separating them, a tiny table wedged into the space to hold a couple of candlesticks, and a tiny window centred on the wall between the two headboards. 

Eskel lights the candles from across the room with a quick and controlled burst of  _ igni,  _ fingers flexing into the shape of the sign. Jaskier drops his possessions- as few and far between as they are- at the foot of the bed closest to him, before gingerly sitting down to remove his boots. 

By the time he’s worked the stubborn leather off of his feet with clumsy hands, Eskel has stripped efficiently out of his armour, leaving him in the softer linen layers he prefers to sleep in, sitting near the head of his own bed, watching Jaskier struggle. He’s clearly waiting for him to finish getting ready for bed. Jaskier scrambles out of his outer layers, almost tripping on the uneven floorboard in his haste as he shuffles toward his own bed but catching himself just in time.

Eskel huffs put a laugh at his clumsiness, but doesn’t otherwise comment. He quirks his head, gesturing towards the candles. Jaskier nods, and after a moment Eskel leans forward to gently blow them out. Darkness curls around them both, enveloping them in a comforting quiet which Jaskier takes as his cue to go ahead and lie down. 

Jaskier stares at the crumbling plaster of the walls in the darkness, willing himself to fall asleep, but of course he can’t quite manage the feat. His usual worries keep him company as he zones out, looking at the pitch black shadows on the eaves of the ceiling but not really seeing anything, his mind far away. 

He’s just not sure how he’s supposed to go back to being alone, to fending for himself. It’s barely been a week of him having company, of him not being alone, so he should have no problem being self sufficient once more but even the thought of it terrifies him. 

It’s clear after maybe an hour of staring that he won’t be getting any sleep any time soon. Jaskier slips out of bed, mindful of disturbing Eskel’s well earned rest. He pushes his feet into his boots and grabs his cloak from the floor, before heading downstairs. Maybe a change of scenery will help to calm his nerves. 

It’s still early, at least by an inn’s standards, and so there are still a fair few people sitting downstairs, thoroughly drunk and rowdy because of it. Jaskier knows how unpredictable people can get when they’re drunk, and a part of him is instantly on edge, but on a second glance around the room he can see almost everyone is too preoccupied with themselves to even notice his presence in the room.

Jaskier makes his way cautiously towards the bar. He doesn’t want to waste his precious coin on a drink, but without one he doesn’t really have an excuse to sit here alone, so he beckons the barkeep closer. He stumbles over his words, unused to having the money or freedom to order for himself. 

The young woman looks him up and down, apparently taking in his bedraggled state, and decides to put him out of his misery, offering him a plain mug of water free of charge “since it don’t look like you got the funds for much else.”

Jaskier cringes, but it’s not like she’s wrong, so he just nods, and takes the offered mug gratefully. 

He sits down carefully at one of the empty tables, as far away from the noisy drunks as he can get. His chosen spot looks over most of the room, only a few tables and one door to what he assumes is the kitchens behind him, meaning his back isn’t too exposed. It doesn’t mean Jaskier can let his guard down completely, not while in public in an unknown town, but he relaxes enough to stare into his drink for a while, lost in thought. 

A hand snaking around his shoulders startles him badly out of his spiralling thoughts. Jaskier doesn’t let himself react beyond his initial involuntary flinch, keeping his face blank as he turns his head to the side to make eye contact with whoever it is that’s approached him. He’s expecting it to be Lambert, or Eskel maybe, come to see why he’s moping at the bar rather than upstairs asleep, but instead it’s the man from before, the one who wouldn’t stop staring when they ate dinner. 

His gaze makes Jaskier even more uncomfortable up close. All he wants to do is get away. This interaction can’t be going anywhere good if the man sees fit to be so overly familiar with someone he’s never spoken to before. 

Jaskier’s heart pounds heavily in his chest. He can’t risk making trouble in such a crowded place, not in a town he only arrived in a few hours before where he doesn’t know that anyone would bother to back him up. He smiles tightly at the stranger, who takes it as an invitation to sit down on the bench next to him, thigh pressed to thigh as he sprawls arrogantly into Jaskier’s space. 

“Well hello there, pretty boy. I didn’t expect to see you down here alone so soon. Bored of your mutant friends already?” 

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say, aware of the myriad of reasons this situation could go south very quickly, so he says nothing, keeping his face blank and placid as he waits for the man to make his purpose for talking to him known. 

“Maybe you’re in need of some new company- lucky that I found you, huh?”

Not wanting to agree with him, but not knowing how to get rid of the man, Jaskier inclines his head in a way that could be interpreted as a nod, if his new companion chooses so, which he does. The man leans in further. 

“You got a name?” he asks flippantly, seemingly uncaring of the answer, his eyes bored behind his falsely charming expression. 

“My name is J-Jaskier, sir.” answers Jaskier uncertainly. 

“So polite, Jaskier, I like that- I think you can keep calling me that, for now. Buttercup, huh? What a pretty name for a worthless little weed. It suits you. Although, are you sure your name isn’t...Pansy? That might suit you even better.” 

The man laughs as if he’s said something clever; Jaskier says nothing. The man leans closer still, his body weight more heavily resting on Jaskier’s shoulders, a proprietary move. 

“You know, I came over here because my friends and I had a question, earlier.” The man smirks, his voice low as if he’s sharing a particularly juicy secret with Jaskier. 

“O-oh?” Jaskier hates how weak he sounds, how nervous, but he can’t help how his voice shakes. The stranger’s hand moves from where it had been hanging loosely over Jaskier’s shoulder to caress the back of his neck, a poor parody of tenderness. 

“You see, we were wondering- how much is it exactly, for a night with a witcher's whore?”

Jaskier freezes. His shock seems to amuse the man further, delighted that he’s such easy prey. 

“Come on, you can’t deny it. We all saw it, plain as day. You didn’t even try to hide that they were paying for your company- the way you rode into town, looking like you’ve been passed around between them for days on end, them handing you that incriminating bag of money at dinner, and you following them like an obedient little whore upstairs. It wasn’t hard to figure out.” 

The man rakes his eyes up and down Jaskier’s body, and Jaskier knows without a doubt that he’s imagining what he looks like unclothed and vulnerable. The look is everything that he worried he would see in one of the witcher’s eyes, everything he’s laid awake at night and feared. He knows what’s coming next well before the man speaks. 

“So how much for me to show you what a real man can do?” The stranger smirks again.”Maybe you’re so worn out you’ll give it up for free, huh?”

Jaskier tries to move away, ashamed that his worth is so obvious to outsiders at barely a glance- he can’t even hide what he is from a group of strangers  _ he didn’t even interact with  _ for the length of an evening. Guilt rises in his stomach at the thought that his poor reputation has tainted that of the witchers by mere association. He barely has time to twitch his muscles before the man’s hold tightens to keep him in place. 

Once it’s clear he won’t move anywhere, the man loosens his grip, hand skating down to rest posessively on his lower back, intent clear. Jaskier looks anywhere but at the man’s face, trying desperately to calculate how bad this could get. He can feel his mind starting to slip away, the key turning in the lock, and he waits for everything to go numb so that none of this matters anymore. 

His lack of engagement is apparently the wrong move- the stranger clasps his hand around Jaskier’s chin to get his attention, applying almost bruising pressure until he relents, and tilts his face to look up. He can feel his body trembling, but he keeps his eyes on the stranger’s own. Their faces are so close that he has to keep changing his focus from one eye to the other to maintain eye contact. 

“Such pretty blue eyes… I wonder what they’ll look like when they’re filled with tears.” 

Jaskier looks down again, afraid of the sadistic lust he sees there. The man glances down too, looking at where his hands rest limply in his lap. 

“Those are some deep bruises on your wrists- did you like to struggle when they took turns holding you down as they fucked you?” The stranger moves his other hand to envelop Jaskier’s, pushing his fingers out of the way until he brushes against the fabric of his trousers. Jaskier shuts his eyes, willing himself not to struggle and not to cry. “Shh, don’t worry, buttercup, I’m strong enough that you can struggle all you like on my cock-”

“Enough.” 

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the man is yanked unceremoniously from his seat, pulled backwards by a large hand on the scruff of his neck. He lands on his ass on the floor. Jaskier has barely processed the fact that he’s not being suffocated by that unwanted touch before he turns to look at whoever it is that’s come to his rescue.

His eyes meet warm amber. Geralt’s expression is calm but utterly unreadable. Before Jaskier has time to respond in any way, the man on the floor starts stammering. 

“Hey, hey, Witcher, if I had known you weren’t finished with your pet whore I would never have touched him, I swear-“ 

Geralt grunts, unamused at the display, and pulls the stranger to his feet while he stammers out apologies littered with vague insults and protestations of his innocence. 

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.” 

With that, he shoves him in the direction of the door, and after a few stumbling steps and incredulous looks between Geralt and Jaskier, the man leaves. 

The entire room is silent, everyone waiting with bated breath to see what the big scary witcher will do next, but when Geralt simply quirks an eyebrow at them, they all quickly find something else to be interested in. 

Geralt sits down across from him. “What the fuck, Jaskier. Are you alright?” 

“Yes. Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be? Nothing I haven’t dealt with before, I assure you.” It’s like all the words he couldn’t find before have come at once, and at Geralt’s growing confusion Jaskier feels the urge to fill the silence more. “I’m just a little out of practise, you see, at following my partner’s lead on that sort of thing. I was...surprised, at the offer. But I won’t be next time- it’ll all come back to me once I get used to the song and dance of it again.”

Jaskier doesn’t know how to gauge whatever reaction it is that Geralt is having right now, but it doesn’t look good. “Before? Next time? Jaskier. I don’t- has this... sort of thing happened before?” 

Jaskier can’t keep his eyes on one spot, startled and confused as he is by Geralt’s strange reaction. 

“Well. Yes. Not this precise scenario, perhaps- usually people aren’t quite so blatant or obtuse about it, but I mean- you know how it is. Or well. Perhaps you don’t. But you know how villages employ you for your services- this is no different, I suppose. I just have different skills to offer, is all.” 

Geralt looks at him flatly, as he’s being particularly stupid. “Jaskier. What just happened is not okay.” 

Jaskier blinks. He didn’t take Geralt for one of those people, who turn their nose up at people just trying to make a living using their bodies. After all, it’s not his fault that that’s all anyone else ever wants from him. Still, no need to be rude to the man who yet again saved him from something unpleasant. He smiles sheepishly at Geralt, but Geralt’s scowl only deepens. 

”I’m sorry that you had to see it, then. It wasn’t my idea to have a conversation somewhere so public, and it wasn’t my intent to be offensive in any way. But I didn’t have much control over that, as you can imagine.” Jaskier gestures as he talks, his arms sweeping through the space between them as he attempts to get his point across. Even he can see how much they shake, so he lowers his arms to hide his hands beneath the table. “Anyway. Thank you for stepping in- although your efforts were entirely unnecessary, I can’t say that I’m not relieved to have an easy escape from the situation, all things considered, so. It all worked out in the end.”

Jaskier pauses a moment, before deciding maybe a subject change is in order to bridge over the awkwardness. “What were you even doing up, anyhow? Didn't you go to bed at the same time as the rest of us? I thought I was the only insomniac among us.” 

Geralt furrows his brow, as if it’s taking a great effort to keep up with the flow of the conversation. “I wanted to check on the horses. I… you- you misunderstand me, Jaskier. I have no problem with… that sort of arrangement, as long as all parties are willing. But that wasn’t…You were scared, I could smell it from across the room.” 

That makes a spark of anger flare in Jaskier’s belly. He didn’t expect the insult of having his own weaknesses thrown back at him, he hadn’t braced himself against that sort of stinging barb. Doesn't Geralt understand that he isn’t some emotionless doll? He accepts he has to offer up his body for the amusement of others, but even he has limits, and he draws the line at offering his mind too. 

“Well of course I was- ” he says shortly, “like I said, I’m out of practise at this. And, y’know, most people don’t have a witcher’s senses to pick up my emotional state. I promise you, I would have consented to whatever happened, but I’m not. Perfect. I-I can’t control my involuntary reactions, Geralt.” 

Jaskier tries to respond evenly, to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but it’s clear he fails, since Geralt manages to look even more angry at his answer. 

“Coerced consent isn’t consent. That would have been r-“

Jaskier cuts him off before he can use that word around him, standing abruptly and angrily, ready for this conversation to be  _ over already _ . Gods above, he didn’t expect a man almost a century old to be this naive. “Oh come on, Geralt. We don’t live in a fairytale. Yes, I wouldn’t have been happy about it, but it would have been worth it for the coin, or a hot meal, or a bed to sleep in for the night. I don’t expect you to approve of me or my choices, but I don’t have any other options, do I? Not if I only have myself to rely on.” 

The witcher splutters, his jaw working mulishly. Wisely, he chooses to say nothing. Jaskier tries to think of what to say, but his irritation at Geralt’s judgement and hypocrisy makes it hard to think. It’s not his fault that he has to do whatever he can to survive, not when Geralt and his fellow witchers have taken the decision out of his hands under the guise of “protecting him.”

“Look. I’m sorry for snapping at you. It’s been a long day, and I think I need to get some rest. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, Geralt, but your concerns are misplaced.” 

He nods jerkily at him, and turns quickly, before he can see Geralt’s reaction and get drawn into a further argument. He climbs the creaky steps to his room two at a time, exhausted beyond words and ready to put this horrible day behind him.

Thankfully Eskel seems to be deep in the land of sleep when he cracks open the door, so it’s effortless to slip back into bed undetected, and let sleep save him from his thoughts for a few hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning/ summary: Jaskier catches the attention of an unsavoury man at the bar, who wrongly assumes Jaskier is a prostitute working for the witchers. He insults Jaskier repeatedly while also propositioning him to spend the evening with him. Jaskier is afraid, and there’s a clear lack of his consent, but the other man doesn’t seem to care. It escalates to the point of some inappropriate touching over Jaskier’s clothes, before Geralt steps in to stop the man. A general discussion about what happened follows, with themes of sex work and consent discussed, if vaguely. 
> 
> I’m still blown away by the amount of positive feedback I get on this fic. I never intended for so many of you to be here, reading and commenting on each chapter. Know that it’s because of you, dear hearts, that I keep writing week after week. Life continues to be busy, unfortunately, but I promise I will catch up on all the comments soon, I read every one as it comes in <3


	15. 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning brings an important conversation. Communication continues to be no ones strong suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t think that the last chapter would be the end of all the miscommunication, did you? There’s a still a little more angst to go before the boys iron things out. 
> 
> No extra warnings this time! Hope you enjoy the update, dear hearts ❤️

The room is empty by the time Jaskier wakes in the morning, pure exhaustion having sent him into a deep sleep. His body feels stiff after a night on the lumpy mattress- though far less stiff than it usually is after a night on the forest floor- so he takes a moment to stretch out to try and relieve his aches and pains. There’s just enough light spilling into the room through the cracks in the old, worn door that he doesn’t bother to light a candle while he dresses quickly, gathering his stuff and packing it efficiently in the centre of his bedroll, though he puts a handful of coins and his knife in his pocket. Jaskier looks around, trying to think if there’s anything he should do before he leaves, but he doesn’t have any real desire to linger in the tiny room. Though he probably should, thinking about the places he’s likely to be sleeping for the foreseeable future.

The tavern is quiet as he descends the stairs with his bedroll on his shoulder, most people either still asleep after a night of heavy drinking or already busy going about their day’s work elsewhere. It’s easy to spot the table of witchers as he reaches the last step of the stairs, enjoying one final meal before they journey on. It’s not easy to make himself walk over there and face them. 

Maybe he shouldn’t go over there. Anxiety about facing the music after last night aside, it might be time to cut ties cleanly, rather than be like a child clinging to their mother’s apron strings. He’s been accused of being too sentimental before- perhaps the witchers wish to spend a quiet morning alone without a troublesome human inserting himself where he isn’t wanted. Perhaps they expected him to be gone already, and he’s been too stupid to realise until now. 

It’s also true that he’s just plain afraid to face Geralt in the morning light, afraid he’ll see disgust or contempt for his actions last night on that handsome face. Geralt isn’t one for hiding his true thoughts about something. Jaskier himself is embarrassed by his weakness, at his inability to play along and be obedient for even the length of a conversation. Gods, if he just hadn’t made such a fuss about it all, if he’d agreed to what the man wanted and moved them out of somewhere so public, Geralt never would have seen it necessary to intervene.

Deep down, he knows he’s a better actor than last night’s performance, and the Jaskier from even a few weeks ago wouldn’t have been so obvious about his discomfort and fear as to need rescuing like some damsel in distress. And yet, conversely, a part of him is embarrassed that he cooperated with the man as much as he did. Why does he always check out in situations like that? Why can’t he just bloody defend himself from random men at a bar? Jaskier can’t imagine Geralt would submit to such treatment if he had been in his place. The anger that he felt last night has already fizzled out, and in its place shame burns deep and bright in his stomach. 

Jaskier intends to keep his head down and walk past their table with nothing more than a polite nod. He ponders what he should do instead for a moment, trying to stay out of sight before he’s spotted. He could get himself a drink maybe, or something to eat. He hates to waste the coin when he ate last night, and could survive without anything, but if he eats now he might be able to stretch supplies- he needs to buy supplies- longer on the trail. He has no intention to stay in this place longer than it takes to stock up enough to make it to a major city. Small towns are too fickle, and if he pisses off the wrong person the whole village could turn on him in the blink of an eye. 

Anyway. Back to the problem at hand. Maybe he could just- pretend he hasn’t seen the witchers at all and walk straight past them? In the almost empty room. After he looked directly at them. When their enhanced senses probably heard him coming the moment he got out of bed. Yeah. That’ll work. 

Before he can dither any longer over what to do, the decision is taken out of his hands by Lambert, who spots him across the room and waves him over. Jaskier returns the wave hesitantly, cursing internally, before he makes his way towards them. 

He offers a polite smile as he sits down at the empty space at the table, opposite Eskel and beside Lambert. Jaskier pointedly avoids even looking at Geralt, not wanting to see whether he’s still angry after what happened. The mood at the table is pensive, in a way it normally isn’t, but Jaskier can’t put his finger on why. 

“You hungry?” Lambert asks, clapping Jaskier on the back in that brotherly way he always does in the mornings, before he seems to realise what he’s done and drops it abruptly. 

“Uh I-“

“You must be! Here I’ll order something for you, we’re all having having something-“

Jaskier really shouldn’t spend the money on a full meal, so he tries to protest. “It’s really alright, you don’t have to-“

“Nonsense, it won’t take a minute, I’ll be right back.” 

The only thing worse than paying for breakfast is having someone else pay for it. “Wait, here, take this-“ 

Lambert is halfway across the room before Jaksier can get out his handful of coins from the secure inner pocket of his doublet, so he ends up placing the coins dejectedly on the table in front of him as he watches Lambert flag down someone for more food. He resolves to give the money to Lambert as soon as he comes back- even though he’s handing their own money back to them, it doesn't feel fair to have them pay for his meal. He fiddles with the coins for a few moments, adjusting them until they’re stacked into a neat column on top of each other, largest coin to smallest, trying to distract himself from the awkwardness. 

When he looks up, Geralt has his gaze focused on the middle distance, looking out over the room and sipping absently at a mug of something or other, but for some reason Jaskier gets the distinct impression that until a moment ago, he had been staring straight at him.

There’s an uncomfortable silence at the table as they wait for Lambert to come back from placing Jaskier’s order. Geralt always broods in the mornings- and frequently, the rest of the day too- but Eskel’s quietness is unusual. Usually he likes to talk in the mornings, unless there’s something wrong, and Jaskier has grown accustomed to his chatter. His face seems drawn, eyebrows pinched together and mouth a flat, serious line. Jaskier would almost say he looks guilty but he can’t fathom what Eskel would have to feel guilty about. 

Lambert sits back down beside Jaskier, sliding a mug towards him. He lifts the money from the table, trying to hand it to him in exchange for the drink, but Lambert won’t take it, not even when Jaskier tries to slip it into his pockets underneath the table, so he accepts defeat. Jaskier says thank you quietly, taking a sip to his drink. It’s some kind of cider, he thinks, and it’s good, so he takes another larger drink. 

Geralt clears his throat. “We need to talk about what happened last night.”

Jaskier snaps his head towards Geralt in disbelief. He doesn’t understand Geralt’s motive for bringing this up. Geralt quirks his eyebrows at him, as if to say that this conversation was inevitable. Maybe it was. But that doesn’t mean Jaskier wants to give in so easily. Maybe he can salvage this. 

“Talk about- talk about what, Geralt?” 

He expects similar confusion from Eskel and Lambert, questions asking Geralt to explain what the fuck he’s talking about, but there’s nothing but uncomfortable silence. Lambert rubs the back of his own neck awkwardly. 

It clicks for Jaskier. “You told them.” he says flatly. 

“Of course I did.” 

The way Jaskier sees it, there’s no ‘of course’ about the situation at all, but he can’t say anything more eloquent in response than “Why?”

“Because it’s important. You’re important, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier scoffs internally. He can’t see why that would be the case. After all, they’re headed for destinations unknown after this meal is over, so why does it matter if they know or if they don’t? And he can’t be that important, if they expect him to carry on without them here. He breaks eye contact with Geralt to glance at the others. 

“I would rather know, lad.” There’s that guilt again, resting in Eskel’s eyes. ”I’m sorry that happened to you last night.” 

“Yeah, Jaskier, I’m sorry that asshole acted that way.” says Lambert, his tone surprisingly sincere.”If I had known those bastards were planning to pull a stunt like that, I wouldn’t have let them get away with what they said while we ate.” 

“Aye, I thought they were normal small minded bigots. I didn’t- none of us expected that they would target you, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier shrugs, unsure what to say. He swallows past the lump in his throat, pushing his emotions down and attempting to make light of it all. ”It’s not a big deal, really. One gentleman getting a bit too handsy with me isn’t enough to get yourselves all worked up about, I promise. I’m grateful Geralt was there, but I could have handled it.”

Eskel and Lambert look at him dubiously, disbelieving, but they don’t call him out. Geralt, however, looks angry at how he minimises everything. “I was there, Jaskier. It wasn’t just some guy getting handsy.”

Jaskier doesn’t know how to take any of this. He can feel his own anger rising from before, irritated by Geralt’s attempts to reopen the wound when he just wants to pretend last night didn’t happen. 

“Okay fine, maybe it was a bit more unpleasant than I’m making out, but, I mean. What is there left to possibly talk about now? You were there, you saved me, thank you very much, let’s just...forget about it.” 

“What is there to talk about? What is there to talk  _ about _ ?” Geralt can’t seem to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “How about the fact that you were assaulted and you didn’t seem surprised by it? Or the fact that you were assaulted and you didn’t try to stop it? The fact that you were assaulted and you think there’s nothing to talk about? We could talk about that, Jaskier.”

Each sentence feels like a slap around the face, and Jaskier can’t help himself from flinching back a little. He swears he can even hear the ringing in his ears that usually follows a strong backhand across the face. 

He knew he should have walked on by this morning- maybe if he had this conversation wouldn’t be happening. Even though he expected the sly comments about how weak he was last night, it doesn’t make them hurt any less. In his heart of hearts, he didn’t actually think Geralt would stoop so low. Why rescue him only to humiliate him for needing to be rescued afterwards? He supposes that’s one way to feel powerful, to emphasise someone else’s weakness, but the cruelty of it doesn’t seem to match anything else about this situation. 

Jaskier is aware that someone is still talking, but can’t tell who it is or what they’re saying. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to listen to this. For maybe the first time in his life, Jaskier realises he doesn’t have to stay here and listen to vague insults or participate in a long drawn out conversation he has no interest in. Maybe he owes it to the witchers to stay and listen after the kindness they’ve shown him, but honestly, he just wants to get out of here. 

His stool clatters loudly against the stone floor. 

“I- I need to. Go.”

“Jaskier-“ 

“I’ve got to make the best of the daylight, which isn't long this far north, and I don’t want to keep you here any longer when you’ve so much travelling to do.” Jaskier stumbles backwards, almost falling over the stool before he pivots at the last second to avoid disaster. He continues talking, hardly taking time to breathe, aware he’s starting to sound hysterical. “It doesn’t matter what happened last night- in all honesty, I’m not your problem anymore, which I’m sure you’re relieved about, so this all doesn’t matter, so. So I’m gonna go. Thank you for all that you’ve done for me, I won’t ever be able to repay you for it, but I’ll remember it for a long, long time.” 

“Jaskier, wait-“

“You haven’t even gotten your food yet, lad-“ 

He ignores their pleas for him to come back, to turn around, to just  _ sit back down goddamn it, _ and keeps walking, pushing open the heavy door until he’s outside. 

The frigid air hits him with the force of a body slam, and already he regrets storming out. The sun is barely peeking over the horizon, and its weak winter rays hardly offer much warmth at this time of year even at midday. Fuck, he almost certainly just burnt the one good bridge he’s ever had in his life. Jaskier pulls his cloak tighter, and starts walking, instinctively going against the flow of people to hopefully find somewhere quiet where he can gather himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot comprehend the fact that we just hit over 1000 kudos. It floors me every time I think about it. Thank you (yes you!) for being so wonderful, I don’t know what I did to deserve such lovely readers. 
> 
> Place your bets now on what you think will happen next ;)


	16. 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the witchers gives effective communication another try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings on this chapter, but hopefully you’ll find it eventful nonetheless! 
> 
> Thank you so much to every single reader who’s made it this far, whether you’ve been here since the beginning or only just discovered this story- I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you all ❤️

His feet take him towards the waterfall on the outskirts of the town without any conscious input from his brain. 

The clearing surrounding the waterfall is devoid of people at this time of day. Besides the river itself, the only thing of interest at this side of the town is the old road which Jaskier and the witchers arrived by; given that they didn’t see anyone else on their way here, it seems safe to say that the road has fallen into disuse.

Jaskier sits down absently on a somewhat dry rock at the water’s edge, hanging his head in his hands. The spray hitting off the rocks means that it only takes a few minutes for his cloak to get wet, for the damp to creep through the thin cloth of his breeches, but he really can’t bring himself to care, even though he probably should- he fears if he doesn’t just sit here for a bit, he’ll end up collapsing where he stands.

It’s not quiet, not with the rushing sound of the water drowning (ha) out every other noise, but Jaskier finds there’s something calming about the sound. It’s just teetering on the edge of overwhelming, and it distracts him from his own overwhelming thoughts. 

Oh fuck. Breakfast couldn’t really have gone worse, could it? Jaskier knows he overreacted to the whole situation,  _ he knows that, _ but at the same time he couldn’t cope with sitting there any longer. It’s hard for him to imagine that Geralt had any good motives in bringing up what happened. His eyes burn when he thinks about it, the angry tone of Geralt’s voice as he’d recounted how Jaskier hadn’t fought back. The closest thing he’d ever had to a group of friends and they all must’ve thought he was pathetic. And that was before he stormed out like a child throwing a tantrum not getting their way. 

He tells himself it doesn’t matter how it ended anyways, because he’s never going to see the witchers again, but disappointment rests heavily in his gut at the note things ended on.

Gods above, he always manages to ruin everything. No wonder nobody ever wants to stick around him- Jaskier doesn’t even want to be around himself. His cheeks ache from clenching his jaw in an attempt to hold back the tears threatening to fall. 

He doesn’t know what to do now. He supposes that the plan from this morning, as lacking in details as it was, is still one that he should follow. He’s going to need more supplies if he wants to survive long enough to make it to the next city. He doesn’t have anything to his name except his bedroll, his pocketknife and the clothes on his back. 

And the money gifted to him, of course. He doesn’t know how much he has now, he never counted how much they gave him since it had seemed rude at the time, but now he needs to know. How much he has will make a big difference to his comfort as he travels, and also how long he can put off relying on someone other than himself. At a bare minimum, he needs food that’ll keep while on the road, and enough of it that he can ration it to make it last as long as possible. Jaskier lets himself fantasize for a moment about having enough to buy some warmer clothes- a thicker woollen tunic perhaps, some stockings or maybe a heavier cloak. Anything to stop him feeling the cold air so keenly now that he won’t have the extra body warmth of his witchers or the luxury of sitting on horseback all day rather than trudging on foot. But he knows his budget is highly unlikely to stretch that far. Even if it could, the memories of the unending, slow agony of starvation are too fresh in his mind for him to want to waste the coin on anything so extravagant. 

Soon, he’ll lean forward and fish out his money from his pack to count it. Soon, he’ll make the short walk back to the center of town to find a few shops to spend it. Soon, he’ll get his life together, but right now he needs to sit here and fall apart for two damn minutes and then he’ll be fine. 

“Jaskier?”

A voice calls to him from the side, startling him out of his breakdown. It’s Eskel, standing maybe six feet away, looking the most uncertain he’s ever seen him. Jaskier peers past him, leaning to get a better view, but he doesn’t see the others waiting further down the path, nor can he hear the noises and smells that usually accompany the horses. Eskel came alone to find him. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with that piece of information. 

“Uh, yes...hi. Hello.” To his own ears his voice sounds shaky as he wipes at his face to get rid of the evidence of his crying. 

“I didn’t know if I’d actually find you out here. Do you mind if I join you?” 

Jaskier inclines his head warily, trying to work out why Eskel is here, before giving up and shuffling along the rock he’s sitting on until there’s enough space for Eskel as well as his answer to the question. He sits gingerly, as if afraid to invade Jaskier’s personal space. The behaviour is so at odds with the man from last night that it makes him shudder if he allows himself to think about it too much. 

“Here.” Eskel hands him a package, covered in waxed paper and tied with string. “I thought you might still want that breakfast we promised you.” 

Jaskier places the parcel carefully on his lap, pulling at the neatly tied bow to unwrap it. There’s two crusty rolls of bread inside, still warm and wafting that delicious freshly baked smell to his nose. Alongside the bread- which he would have considered a hearty meal on its own- there’s also a small block of hard cheese, slices of cured meat, and a handful of dried fruit. His mouth waters to even imagine eating it all. It doesn’t escape Jaskier’s notice that all of the food is food which would keep for a few days on the road.

He stares at the spread laid out in his lap for a moment, before gently closing the parcel up again, careful not to crush any of the food. He turns his head to look at Eskel. “You can’t have come all this way to give me my breakfast.” 

Eskel sighs, dropping his head. “No, you’re right about that. I didn’t. I came to apologise.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“No, I did. I’m sorry about how we all handled this morning. I’m sorry about a lot of things actually.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Eskel doesn’t say anything to fill the silence either, seemingly searching for the right words to get across what he’s trying to say.

He takes a moment to admire the view in front of him to try and give him the space to figure out what he wants to say. The rush of all that water flowing over the edge of the rock, the twisted tree roots and vines helping to hold the cliffside together, the relative calm of the water once it reaches the base of the waterfall to flow flows downstream- Jaskier lets his eyes flicker back and forth over it all before turning his attention back to Eskel as he begins to speak. 

“I didn’t realise that...what happened last night was something that’s happened to you before. That it’s been something you’ve had to fear happening. None of us did.”

Eskel looks down at his clasped hands, lacing his fingers together and turning them over from side to side, running each thumb over the heel of the opposite hand, feeling the callouses there. Jaskier can see that the witcher’s hands are covered in silvery white scars, the story of his profession written into his skin. 

“We’re used to humans being either disgusted by us or terrified, so it didn’t seem so unusual for you to be so afraid. A lot of people are, when they spend time with us. And that’s when there are other humans around- safety in numbers. You were alone with us. ”

Jaskier’s chest aches to think of the witchers being viewed in such a way, to be feared simply because of who they are. He feels ashamed that his own fear came across as small-minded bigotry. At the same time he was afraid to be alone with the witchers, but not particularly because of their mutations, but because of their power and strength in contrast to his weakness and vulnerability. He doesn’t really know how to stop being afraid of that, or if he even should. Sometimes it seems as if his fear is the only thing he has to keep him safe. 

“But I should have realised something was wrong right from the start. That day, right at the beginning, with the fire, you thought I’d rape you, over a small mistake, didn’t you? Over some carrots and a burn to the wrist.”

Jaskier thinks back to that moment, uncomfortable with Eskel’s summary of the situation. It sounds ridiculous when put that way, but that doesn’t make the assessment less true. At the time, he was so  _ so afraid _ of the punishment for messing something up that he was prepared to do anything to make it right. Hell, if it happened again he probably wouldn’t do anything different, besides try to better control his emotions. As far as he’s concerned, the thing that caused everything to go wrong was his own execution of the plan, not the plan itself, not really. 

“I wouldn’t have called it rape, because I was more than willing to.” Jaskier shies away from being explicit with his wording, unsure how to phrase it exactly. “To...do that for you. But. Yes, Eskel. That’s what I thought would happen.”

Eskel sighs. “Deep down, I knew that already. It was obvious at the time, but I rationalised it away because I thought it was just a moment of poorly thought out panic- I thought maybe you’d heard some horrible rumour about witchers and thought we were all brutes who would expect that of you.” 

“I know that you don’t expect that from me now, Eskel. You made that very clear.” Jaskier inwardly winces at the very thorough rejection he received on that front, however necessary it had been. 

Eskel nods, agreeing with him easily. “Right, but what if I asked? What then?”

Unease blooms inside him at the sudden turn in the conversation, but what else can he say? Didn’t he just think to himself that the only problem last time was his own reaction? The universe obviously wants to see him put his money where his mouth is. He grasps the parcel of food still resting on his lap tightly, trying to work out where to put it so that it will be safely out of the way. Jaskier settles on holding it awkwardly against his chest for the time being as he starts to slip to his knees, babbling the first semi-coherent sentence he can think of. 

“I didn’t- of course, Eskel. Whatever you want.”

His breeches haven’t even hit the wet forest floor yet before Eskel is dragging him up again, gripping his shoulders and then smoothing his hands down his arms as if to soothe him. 

“That’s not what I- fucking hell, I’m messing this up as badly as Geralt did. Jaskier. What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t realise that this was something you’ve had to deal with when travelling alone, I thought it was just a one off miscommunication but it’s not, is it?”

Jaskier can’t look Eskel in the eye, which he hopes will be answer enough, but it isn’t, since the silence stretches on until he gathers the courage to speak. He’s not sure whether he should be honest or if he should downplay the truth and hide how pathetic he is. In the end he’s just too tired to lie, and too tired to tell the whole sordid tale of his life, so he settles on being vague. 

“It’s just...something that happens. Nothing comes without a price.” Jaskier sighs.”It’s not something I enjoy about travelling alone but it’s...inevitable. Normally I know how to handle it better than I did last night, I promise. You don’t need to worry about me, Eskel.” 

He tries to smile, but Jaskier knows it’s a watery smile at best. 

“What that man did to you last night was unacceptable- it should never have happened to you, Jaskier. It shouldn’t be something that’s inevitable.”

There’s a sadness in Eskel’s eyes, a deep discomfort that feels familiar to Jaskier. He shrugs. Jaskier accepted the world he lives in a long time ago, or at least learned to pretend that he has. He’s had to, in order to survive. How strange to watch a man with at least four times his life experience struggle with the same lesson. 

“Come with us. Please. I can’t stand the thought of you being alone out there to face that- I can’t stand that you’ve faced this so much that you’re this fucking resigned to it. I’m not forcing you to if you don’t want to but. Please. Come with us, Jaskier.” 

It’s everything Jaskier hoped he would hear one of the witchers say, everything he’s been desperately striving for, but he feels like he’s conned his way into it out of misplaced pity. 

“Eskel I- I don’t know... I’d love to say yes but. But- the others?” 

“All three of us talked about it. We were going to offer at breakfast before Geralt put his foot in it.“ Eskel hesitates.”I won’t lie. It won’t be easy to journey with us- we weren’t lying before about the journey being dangerous ahead. But. If you want to come with us, you can.” 

Jaskier wipes under his eyes, overwhelmed. It’s so out of the blue, so at odds with what he thought was going to happen today that he can’t quite pull himself together as fast as he would like, but Eskel doesn’t seem to mind. He waits patiently, eyes searching Jaskier’s face. Somehow, it’s clear that he’s completely focused on him, giving Jaskier his full attention, without displaying any frustration at his indecision. There’s not an ounce of malice or malcontent in his expression. 

Jaskier knows that his decision had been made almost at the moment that Eskel had made his offer, but it’s the absence of anger that helps him find his voice to speak. 

“Okay,” he says softly. “I want to come with you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a turn of events that surprises literally no one, Jaskier is going to be staying with the witchers 🎉 things won’t exactly be easy for Jaskier from here on out, but that’s one less Sword of Damocles hanging over his head, right? 
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter, if you like. It’s still my favourite thing to read all your comments, I do a little happy dance over here at every email notification.


	17. 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier reunites with the rest of the group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you so much for the feedback on the last chapter, I had a good chuckle laughing at all your braincell comments, you guys are the best.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the update ❤️

The walk back into town is silent aside from the usually unnoticeable soundscape of their surroundings: the chattering of birds overheard,the crunching of leaves underfoot, the distant hum of conversation happening in the village proper- Jaskier finds it soothing to pay attention to all the sounds he normally ignores rather than try to break the silence. He knows he needs the time to process their conversation, and he imagines Eskel is much the same. 

It’s only a quarter of an hour at most before they’re back in Glen Uaine itself. Lambert is standing outside the inn, leaning against the crumbling, dirt-splattered brickwork as Eskel and Jaskier approach the building from across the cobbled market square. He perks up when he spots them, brushing his hands off against his chest as if attempting to make himself look more presentable. 

Jaskier tries not to let his step falter, but it’s hard when he’s still so afraid of what happens next. A part of him can’t help but think about standing here in this street- probably almost in exactly this spot- a little under a day ago. The difference in his position between yesterday and today couldn’t be more stark, and yet Jaskier still feels that familiar hollow dread inside. 

He tries to listen to the hopeful voice inside his head, the one he had chosen to trust back at the waterfall, but the mutterings of all his fears are just too loud. How often has everything actually worked out the way he hoped it would? Better yet, how often has he  _ thought _ everything has worked out the way he hoped it would only for everything to go tits up in a spectacular fashion? Jaskier can’t help but worry that this is all some elaborate hoax, or that maybe Eskel was lying about the others being okay with him tagging along for the foreseeable future. Even though he knows the three witchers would never do that to him, it's not in their nature to be so cruel, he can’t shake the distrust he feels at a situation that seems too good to be true. 

There has to be some catch, right? 

Lambert jogs to meet them halfway across the square. “You found him! Jaskier, thank fuck you’re alright.” 

Before Jaskier can telegraph what’s happening, he’s being enveloped in a crushing hug, Lambert holding on to him so tight he’ll bruise him, if it lasts too long. He drops his bag in surprise, sparing half a thought in his shock for the muck that’s sure to be coating it now. Thankfully, he just about manages to hold onto his breakfast parcel with the other hand- even with its protective layer of waxed paper, it probably wouldn't survive being dunked in a puddle of filth. He readjusts his grip on the food before he hesitantly raises his arms to hug back, dropping his face to rest lightly in the crook of Lambert’s neck. It’s...nice, to be held like this. 

The hug lasts only a scant few seconds before Lambert steps back, holding onto Jaskier’s shoulders briefly to give him an appraising look before he lets go completely. He nods his head towards Eskel. 

“Did he give you your breakfast then?”

“I did, yes- you can even see he’s holding it right now, if you cared to use your eyes,” answers Eskel before he gets a chance to speak, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“Uh, yes, he did,” says Jaskier redundantly. “Thank you for buying it for me, I didn’t say that earlier since. You know.” 

He trails off awkwardly for a few moments, not sure how to broach the topic of this morning. “I’m sorry I stormed off like that. It was rude of me. And unfair to you all.”

Lambert makes a sound of dismissal. “I’m just sorry you felt like you had no choice left but to run off. We aren’t the most tactful about this sort of stuff.” 

Jaskier ducks his head, still vaguely embarrassed at his earlier reactions.

“Did, uh, did Eskel bring up our idea yet?” 

“I did, yes,” says Eskel as he stoops to pick up Jaskier’s bedroll, placing it gently back on his shoulder for him. At least Jaskier knows now that he wasn’t lying about the fact that the three of them had discussed him coming along for the winter. 

Lambert looks expectantly between them, raising his eyebrows. “And?”

Jaskier shrugs the strap more comfortably into place. “I’d um. Really like to keep travelling with you lot, if you’ll have me?”

“Good. Good! Of course we will. That’s great news, Jaksier.” Lambert smiles warmly at him, even if the expression is a little tight around the eyes. Jaskier does his best to return it with one of his own. 

“Where’s Geralt?” asks Eskel, glancing around the place. 

Lambert points a thumb casually over his shoulder, presumably in the direction that Geralt is. “He took Roach to see the farrier right after you left- he should be back any minute now, actually.”

“And the other two are ready to go?”

“Yes Vesemir,” says Lambert in a mocking voice as rolls his eyes at Eskel. “I got them ready.”

Eskel doesn’t rise to the bait. “Okay, good. Anything else we’ll need before we set off? We could probably do with replacing some of our food stores, if we have the coin to spare.” 

Lambert winces. “Geralt took most of what we had left when he went off to get Roach shod, but there should be just enough left for what we need.”

Jaskier knew that the witchers didn’t have a lot of money when they gave him that pouch of coin last night, he knew it was an unbelievably generous gift but he didn’t realise what dire financial straits he was leaving them in when he took it. The few loose coins he has stuffed in his doublet burn a hole in his pocket. He forces himself to speak up. 

“I can get what you need. If you would like.” 

Eskel dismisses him outright, as Jaskier knew he would. “Lad, we aren’t asking you to do that.” 

“I know, I want to. It’s your money anyways.”

“That we gifted  _ to  _ you.” Lambert gives him a look like he’s being ridiculous. 

“Right. Jaskier- it’s fine. We‘ll manage. Keep your money for now.”

Jaskier wants to argue more- it was money gifted to him in expectation of him spending a winter alone, after all- but he knows if he pushes any more he won’t get anywhere, so he just nods his head in acceptance. Even if it was their money in the first place, he can tell that it feels too much like charity to the witchers to take it back off him now. He’s intimately familiar with the feeling, though he’s learned to push it aside because pride doesn’t keep you warm in winter or your belly full. But he makes a mental note to make sure that every coin of the money is spent on the group. He has no intention to be a dead weight.

Eskel and Lambert discuss what they’ll need to stock up on- oats, for the horses and for their porridge; a couple of jars of preserves and some fresh bread to spread it on; whatever vegetables they can find this late in the year- and where in town is most likely to stock what they need. On one hand, it’s a pity it’s not market day, since the variety of food available would be much better, and likely cheaper too, but on the other the crowds would probably be unbearable. Even the thought of having to interact with other people leaves Jaskier feeling fragile. The melodrama of the morning has taken its toll on his already frayed nerves, but he’ll grin and bear it if he has to. 

Once the two of them have divvied up their shopping list, they turn their attention back to him. They must see his fragility in his expression, or maybe they just wants Jaskier to stay out of harm's way, because all of a sudden he’s being shepherded towards the stables by Lambert. 

“C’mon, you can wait and eat your breakfast beside the horses while we get the last of what we need. Nobody should bother you in there.” 

Maybe he should bristle at being treated like a maiden in need of some smelling salts, but Jaskier would much prefer the company of the horses right now as opposed to rushing around town and haggling prices with strangers, so he lets himself be led towards the stables. 

Once left alone inside, he plonks himself down on an old barrel sitting conveniently in the corner, out of the way of anyone who might come in. The twin smells of manure and hay aren’t the most pleasant on the nose while trying to eat, but Jaskier’s dealt with much worse aromas in his time and the quality of the food more than makes up for it. True to Lambert’s word, apart from the whinnies and snuffles of the horses themselves, it’s quiet. 

He eats his way through maybe a third of the food, going slowly to savour the taste, before pausing to lick the grease left behind by the cheese and meats from his fingertip, feeling both decadent and childish as he does so. He’s just wondering if he should go for broke and polish it all off or save the rest for later when he hears a familiar set of hooves clicking against the cobbles outside, as well as a familiar voice offering a gentle stream of commands under his breath.

Geralt. 

Jaskier only has a few precious seconds to panic over what to do before Roach’s tawny brown head pokes through the stable doors. 

“Jaskier! You’re here.” Geralt sounds as panicked as Jaskier feels. He stops dead in his tracks, halfway into the room. Roach turns to nuzzle at his shoulder, confused by why they’ve suddenly stopped. Geralt presses a hand to rub absently at her nose to soothe her, all the while staring at Jaskier in shock.

“Yeah, um. I’m here.” Jaskier clenches his hands where they rest on his knees. The movement draws Geralt’s gaze downwards towards the food still sitting in his lap. 

“Eskel found you then?”

Jaskier nods. 

“Did he-“

“He offered me- on behalf of the group- a place to keep travelling with you. I...accepted. Is that? Are you alright with that?” As much as Jaskier desperately wants to stay, he’s not going to do it at the expense of someone else’s comfort. If Geralt really doesn’t want him here, he’ll go. 

“Yes, Jaskier- after last night I-“

Jaskier can feel his face freeze as he tries to keep it carefully blank. He makes an effort to tamp down on the swell of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him. He doesn’t want to have another conversation about this, he’s too afraid he’ll lose his temper and manage to royally fuck this all up yet again. But almost as soon as he feels that flash of irritation and resignation Geralt stops talking abruptly. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to- We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to but.” Geralt pauses, taking a deep breath. “Yes, I’m alright with that. I want you with us, if you want to be.”

Jaskier drops his eyes from Geralt’s face, unable to deal with the sincerity and unsure if he wants it after the heat and the hurt of Geralt’s words this morning. He knows the conversation was a misunderstanding, or at least he can gather that’s the case from his conversation with Eskel. But he can’t assume that what Eskel said to him is what Geralt thinks about the whole situation. He’s not even sure he understands what Eskel was trying to say this morning. 

Roach is still tugging gently at where Geralt holds her reins, eager to be over with the other horses and get her fair share of hay. “You should take care of her- the others will be back soon. I’m gonna get some fresh air.” 

Jaskier fumbles to close up the rest of the food, securing it safely into its little bundle with the string, before he stands clutching it to his chest. He places it safely in the corner with the rest of their belongings, out of harm's way. He goes to push past Geralt, but he blocks his path. 

“Jaskier wait-“

“I won’t go far- I’m not running off again. I’ll even stay in sight, if it makes you feel better, okay?”

Geralt looks like he wants to argue more, but then Roach grabs his attention again, and he accepts defeat. “Okay. I’ll...be in here if you need me.” 

Jaskier nods briskly, slipping outside. He forces himself to take a few shaky breaths, pausing outside just out of sight for some semblance of privacy as he tries to calm himself down. He runs his hands through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes before turning to pace around the edges of the market square. He’s completed only a handful of laps before he spots Eskel and Lambert in the distance. 

“Get everything we needed?” he asks, taking in the copious parcels and packages the two men both carry bundled in their arms. 

“Just about. Here, take this would you?” Lambert hands him one of the smaller parcels to carry, readjusting the rest against his hip. It’s not heavy, only bulky and awkward to hold. They make their way towards the stables. 

“Geralt back yet?” Eskel asks. 

“Uh-huh, he’s inside getting Roach ready.”

“Great. Just gotta pack this stuff away and then we’re ready to go.”

Getting their luggage ready doesn’t take a lot of time, and it isn’t overly awkward as long as Jaskier studiously ignores every attempt Geralt makes at eye contact. He isn’t rude, or at least he tries not to be by engaging in the conversation happening around him, but he’s not keen to talk to Geralt directly until he can learn to sort out the mess in his head.

Luckily, Jaskier once again finds himself clutching onto the worn leather of a saddle for balance, several hours of riding ahead of him, so he has nothing but time to think. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this wasn’t too boring or too unrealistic? Ngl I mostly needed to get a few story threads in order with this update, so I’m worried it was a bit slow. Although that did mean I had time to work in a hug for Jaskier this chapter, so hopefully that makes up for it. 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think, if you’d like! I’m not lying when I say the comments are the main thing keeping me motivated to write.


	18. 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier learns some new information about where it is they’re all headed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, it’s me again! 
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be ready for the solstice, if that gives you any sort of indication of how behind I’ve been in writing lately. I’m determined to keep this story going, though, so I hope that you enjoy this update, even if I’m running a little late ❤️

They ride out of town along one of the mud-covered roads, the horses kicking up splatters of dirt each time their hooves thunder down onto the earth, spraying the bottom of Jaskier’s breeches with a layer of fine speckles. Once upon a time he might have been annoyed about such a thing, but life on the road quashed that sort of vanity out of Jaskier rather quickly. 

The party follows the road for maybe three quarters of an hour, before the lead rider, Geralt, leads them off the path into the surrounding forest until the path is no longer visible, and presumably so that they are no longer visible to anyone riding along it. Riding on the softer surface of the forest floor is harder, but it’s worth it for the sense of privacy the trees offer. It seems like everyone has had enough of other humans for the time being. 

Dusk is falling by the time they stop to make camp, the last of the daylight fading fast. Jaskier is very glad to be stopping for the night. The tip of his nose is numb, his cheeks chapped from the harsh wind whipping at his face all day, and his hands desperately wish for the protection of a pair of gloves- he can’t wait to finally warm up by the fire. He dismounts from Eskel’s horse Scorpion shakily, leaning his weight against his flank for a second to make sure he can actually stand without keeling over. 

The usual routine of establishing camp goes by quickly, no one wanting to dawdle in the cold longer than necessary. Once everything and everyone is mostly settled, Jaskier allows himself to sink down beside the fire, basking in its warmth. Lambert has a pot of something or other bubbling away- the smell wafting towards him is making his mouth water- but he can tell it won’t be ready for a while yet. He stares into the flames, letting himself zone out.

He’s spent most of the day lost in his own head, only briefly surfacing when they paused for their midday break. Which of course is far from unusual- Jaskier’s always been berated for being a bit of a dreamer, his head perpetually in the clouds despite his best efforts to remain in the present. All that extra time to think hasn’t helped him to clarify his thoughts in regards to the Geralt Situation at all, really. He’s still upset with Geralt, hurt by his comments earlier, and confused by his motives. 

And yet the more he thinks about it the less sure he is that he has any right to be. Well, he has a right to be confused- not much to be done about that unless the gods suddenly bless him with some extra wisdom- but the hurt? Jaskier has always had a hard time figuring out whether his emotions are appropriate for the situation or knowing whether his judgements are to be trusted. Most of the time they’re not. Maybe he’s just being ridiculous and petty and melodramatic. 

Afterall, Geralt’s always been one for pushing boundaries in conversation, a dog with a bone once he’s got an idea in his head. Especially when it comes to Jaskier. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that he wouldn’t let the incident at the bar go without at least a conversation. He also hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true: Jaskier  _ wasn’t  _ surprised by the...incident (Jaskier can’t call it an assault, even in his own head), he  _ didn’t  _ try to stop it, he  _ didn’t  _ think there was anything else to discuss. How can he get mad at Geralt for only speaking the truth? 

Jaskier is exhausted trying to make sense of any of it. 

He lets his awareness of the outside world drift away while his thoughts trace and retrace the same well-travelled trails in the forest of his mind. He’s relieved that no one demands anything of him as they wait for their meal to cook- though he’s not sure he would even notice if they did, as caught up in his worrying as he is.

He stirs out of his stupor when a bowl is passed to him, taking it instinctively before his brain catches up and he registers what’s happening. He nods his thanks at Lambert for preparing it before tucking into the food, letting the hot meal slowly warm him up from the inside. 

Across the fire, he makes eye contact with Geralt as they both lift their spoons to their mouths. Jaskier doesn’t know what his own face is doing, but Geralt’s looks tense, his eyes tight. Geralt is the one to drop his gaze first, staring determinedly into his food. Something about the look unsettles Jaskier, leaving him with a sense of regret over how his interaction with the other man went this morning. 

“You want any more?” asks Eskel, a little while later once his bowl is empty. 

Jaskier shakes his head, though in truth he would eat more if he could. If he’s going to be staying long term, he can’t afford to get greedy. “No, thank you.” 

“More for me then,” says Lambert, serving himself another portion of stew and starting to shovel it into his mouth as he speaks. 

Eskel gives him a dirty look. “Ugh, you’re disgusting.” 

“It’s like you were raised by wolves.” Geralt says, his mock seriousness ruined by a small quirk at the corner of his mouth. Jaskier hides his amusement at the dumb joke by taking a well timed sip of water. 

Lambert rolls his eyes, and continues talking through a mouthful of food. “Wow, never heard that joke before. So original, Geralt.” 

Conversation lulls for a few minutes, before Eskel breaks the silence. “So, you ready for yet another day of travelling, lad?”

Jaskier smiles politely. “Well, maybe not right this second.” He glances around at the ink black darkness of the forest beyond the small sphere of fire created by the fire. “But by tomorrow, sure.”

“Ah, you’ll be a seasoned traveller by the time we finish our journey,” says Lambert. “able to navigate your way, blindfolded and riding backwards, travelling through the night without a moment's rest like a true witcher.” 

The group laughs, and Jaskier laughs along with them, but something that Lambert says sticks uncomfortably in his mind. He hadn’t wanted to ask questions earlier, too nervous to rock the boat when the only important thing to Jaskier was that he wasn’t ending up alone, but maybe he can risk a question now, when everyone seems to be in good spirits. 

“Um. Where, uh, where is it, exactly, that our journey is taking us?” 

There’s an uncomfortable beat of silence. 

“Did you not tell him?” Geralt says incredulously. 

Lambert looks to Eskel. “I thought you did-“

“No, I didn’t, I was...distracted.” Eskel sounds sheepish. 

“How can you get distracted from telling him  _ where we’re going.  _ Wasn’t that like, the only thing you had to discuss?“

Jaskier’s pulse is racing, despite the fact he knows the argument is one in good jest. He’s unreasonably afraid of what information Eskel might offer about their conversation, so he butts in before the discussion can go any further. 

“Please...please don’t argue.” The others stop their squabbling at the sound of Jaskier’s hesitant voice. “It’s really fine. I didn’t ask about it until now; I’m as much to blame as you are. But. Where  _ are _ we headed?” 

Eskel considers his answer for a moment, as if deciding how much detail to go into. “Well, right now we’re making our way towards Daevon, and then we’ll pass through Ard Carraigh on our way to for Kaer Morhen for the winter.”

Jaskier tries to conjure an image of a map of Kaedwen in his mind, but he never really paid much attention to territories this far north.

“Kaer Morhen?” 

“It’s the place where all witchers from the School of the Wolf were trained,” answers Geralt matter of factly. ”It’s located in the northeastern mountains of Kaedwen.”

Jaskier tries to digest that piece of information. 

“You...return there often?” 

“Only in winter. And even then not every year.” 

Jaskier wonders why that’s the case. Perhaps the life of a witcher is just too busy to allow them to rest. Or maybe it’s that the keep itself is too busy. His stomach lurches at the thought. Sure, he tentatively trusts these three witchers in particular, but a whole castle full of them? That could only spell danger and discomfort for him. He’s seen first hand that they would leap to his defence against wild animals, monsters and strangers alike, but against their fellow witchers? Jaskier has no doubt as to where their loyalties would lie, and it wouldn’t be with the scrawny human they’ve dragged to the keep out of pity. 

“Is it just you three that make the journey? Or are there other Wolf Witchers that also return for the winter season?”

“There aren’t that many of us left, so it’s usually just us.” Jaskier feels a pang of guilt for asking the question at the look on Eskel’s face. 

Lambert clears his throat. “And there’s Vesemir, of course.” 

Jaskier has heard the name before, but he still doesn’t have a good grasp on who exactly Vesemir is. Geralt explains. 

“He’s one of the older generation of witchers who trained us all. He lives at the keep all year round.” 

Jaskier nods to show he’s understood. “How long will it take us to reach Kaer Morhen?” 

Eskel looks to the sky, obviously doing some mental calculations. “Well, we’re a few days, maybe, from Daevon. If we ride fast. A little under a fortnight to Ard Carraigh. From there, it depends mostly on the weather, how long it’ll take.” 

Conversation moves on. Soon the fire is burnt down to glowing coals, and even Geralt looks tired. 

“We should probably hit the hay if we want to make an early start tomorrow.” say Lambert around a yawn, scratching at his jaw. 

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” 

“Who is sleeping where?” asks Jaskier. 

“Well, Jaskier you’re in the tent, no negotiating that,” says Eskel, fixing him with a harsh look like he knows Jaskier was just about to argue otherwise. “I guess the rest of us can do rock paper scissors for who sleeps outside, unless anyone else has a better id-“

“I’ll sleep outside,” says Geralt gruffly, with a glance towards Jaskier. It’s obvious that he thinks he would be unwelcome. Regret blooms in Jaskier’s stomach. 

“Are you sure?” 

Geralt nods brusquely. “It’s fine.” 

Eskel and Lambert look at each other, obviously suspicious that Geralt is giving up his spot so easily, but neither of them seem to quite understand what’s going on. Jaskier avoids their gaze, looking down at his lap instead. 

“Well if you’re sure, I won’t turn down a night in a warm bed,” says Lambert. 

“Hmmm.” There’s an awkward pause. “I’m... gonna... go get the horses settled up for the night. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, brother.” 

With that, Geralt stands and walks off towards the horses, leaving just the three of them at the fire. 

Lambert stretches his arms above his head. “Right, I’m gonna head on to bed, then.” 

“Me too,” says Eskel, placing his empty dishes with the others and rising to his feet. “You coming, lad?” 

Jaskier glances to the side, where he can just make out the shadowy figure of Geralt standing amongst the horses, stroking Roach’s nose while using his other hand to scratch behind her ear. He looks so lonely over in the darkness by himself. “Uh, no, not just this second. I want to...enjoy the ambiance just a little longer. I’ll catch up with you.” 

One look at Eskel’s face and he knows his admittedly feeble excuse has been seen right through, but the other man thankfully doesn’t say anything. “Alright, but don’t wait up too long. We’ll try to leave a spot for you in the middle. Goodnight, Jaskier.” 

“‘Night, Eskel.” Jaskier smiles. “And Goodnight, Lambert!” 

Lambert calls out a response from over by the tent, half distracted as he is by climbing inside. Eskel squeezes his shoulder on his way past, and Jaskier lets himself lean into the brief moment of comfort 

He glances back towards Geralt, trying to gather the nerve to go over and talk to him. He so badly wants to chicken out, but he knows that this is something he needs to do- regardless of his own hurt feelings, it’s not right that his actions have made Geralt feel like his only option is to isolate himself from the group. He drains the last of the water from his cup in one long gulp, before walking uncertainly towards Geralt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve lost all sense of whether my own writing is good anymore (not that I had much sense to begin with!) so I hope you enjoyed this one- please let me know as always what you thought about it in the comments! 
> 
> I’m trying to get a little surprise finished for you all in time for the new year, but I’m not making any promises just yet...I will say it’s something a few of you have asked for in the comments, if that gives you any clue. 
> 
> Happy holidays, dear hearts.


	19. 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier clear the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear hearts! I hope you’ve all had a wonderful week. This chapter features the long awaited discussion between Geralt and Jaskier. I worked really hard on this one, so I hope you enjoy it!

Jaskier stops a few feet short of where Geralt is standing. He isn’t sure how to begin, but he knows he needs to begin somewhere. Well, when in doubt, it always pays to make yourself useful. He decides that an offer of help is as good an excuse as any to start a conversation. ”Might uh- might I be of any help, Geralt?” 

Geralt turns his head sharply at the sound of Jaskier’s voice. The light of the fire catches his eyes as he moves, reflecting off the back of his eyes to give the appearance that they’re glowing for a brief second. When the flash fades it leaves a look of equal parts confusion and concern behind. ”Jaskier?”

“It’ll be quicker with the two of us, right?” continues Jaskier, aiming to project a calmness and a confidence he doesn’t feel. “I thought at least if I’m to keep you from a warm bed tonight, I could lend a hand so you can get some rest faster.” 

Geralt looks like he’s on the edge of sending him away, a slight grimace on his face, so Jaskier decides it’s worth it to risk a little begging. “Please?” 

Jaskier’s stomach squirms unpleasantly in the silence. Eventually, Geralt must make up his mind, and he relents, accepting his offer of help. “Alright then. Here, you can uh, feed them while I brush out their coats.” 

Geralt tosses him the bag they use to store the horses’ food, which he just about manages to catch, before resuming his methodical brushing of Lambert’s horse, Stout. The sections Geralt has brushed already look a deep, glossy brown- which stands out in contrast to the duller, dirt flecked sections yet to be groomed. 

Jaskier draws his attention to his own task. The horses have eaten most of the grass within reach of where their reins have been tethered, but they still try to push their heads into the bag as he fumbles to open the drawstring, showing great interest in the food inside. Jaskier huffs out a laugh despite his nerves at the thought of the conversation ahead of him, halfheartedly batting them out of the way. He gives each of them a carrot in turn, careful to hold on with his fingers safely out of reach of overexcited teeth as he coos a steady stream of nonsense at the horses like an idiot. 

The gentle rhythmic sound of brushing stops. Jaskier looks up at the silence, taking his attention away from the horses for a moment as he stoops to get more food out of the bag, just in case there’s something wrong. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, except for the fact that Geralt looks down and resumes brushing the second Jaskier glances his way. Jaskier is almost certain he was staring at him fondly, since there’s still a faint smile playing on his lips. He would be embarrassed at his foolish behaviour, but the softness of Geralt’s expression loosens the knot of nerves in his belly enough to give him the courage to speak. 

He holds onto the edge of the thick canvas bag tightly with two hands, putting tension on the fabric. “Geralt… can we talk? About what happened?” 

“Jaskier- you don’t have to-“

Jaskier busies himself with fishing out some more food as a desperate attempt at casualness. “It’s only that I’ve been thinking. All day, actually. About things and I just. I’d really rather we clear the air, if that’s okay with you.” 

Roach butts her head into his shoulder as he talks, eager for some more food, so he holds out a handful of oats in the palm of his hand, keeping perfectly still as she delicately lips at his skin to pick up and eat the grains. Geralt nods, stepping closer, putting down the brush. “I understand.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, exhaling shakily. He pats absently at Roach’s nose with his free hand, taking a few moments to steel himself. He takes a deep breath, and looks Geralt in the eye. “I shouldn’t have run away from a conversation this morning.”

Geralt tilts his head to the side, shaking it slightly and quirking his eyebrows. “I really shouldn’t have pushed-”

“No, no, I handled it badly.” Jaskier winces internally for interrupting so much, but he can’t seem to help himself from talking, his anxiety getting the best of him. “ I couldn’t understand why you were bringing it up and I just. Panicked.” 

He swallows, throat dry. He can feel Geralt’s assessing gaze sweep over him in the brief silence. He bends to grab the package of oats, holding it like an awkwardly shaped baby and letting some of it scatter on the ground so that the horses can eat it directly rather than slowly, a single handful at a time. He pours until Geralt gives him a slight nod to indicate when there’s enough already scattered. He resumes talking. 

“Eskel talked about it with me this morning, a little anyways. I’m not sure that I fully understand everything we talked about, but I understand now that you were shocked by what happened with that man.” He pauses, considering his words. “I admit it must have looked pretty alarming from the outside.”

Geralt hums, tone serious. “It must have been alarming to experience from the inside too.” 

They stare at each other’s eyes for a moment, before the intensity becomes too much and Jaskier has to look away, feeling utterly transparent. When he looks back, Geralt’s eyes are focused on the treeline behind him as he speaks. “When I walked into that room to see that bastard with his hands all over you, when I heard the vile things he was whispering in your ear- I didn’t stop to think. I couldn’t have if I wanted to. I just. Reacted.” 

It says a lot about Geralt, Jaskier thinks, that his first instinct was to help. He can’t say the same of anyone else at the bar last night. 

“I’m glad that you did. I never, ever would have expected it of you, but. I’m glad.” Jaskier’s face feels hot in the cold air, and his throat aches like there’s something caught in it. “Even though I’m thankful- and I’m so bloody thankful Geralt- I’m also very sorry you had to see what happened at all.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that I- I had no idea my actions would come across as offensive to you. Though, of course I completely get why they were. And if I had known I would have never wanted you to stumble across me in such a position if I’d had a choice.” 

“But then you would have been hurt.”

“I could have handled it.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt sounds angry again, but his face is soft. “Doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have had to. Even hypothetically.” 

The lump in Jaskier’s throat grows. Geralt steps closer, blocking the light from the dying fire. He takes the bag of oats, which has started to slip from Jaskier’s trembling grasp to spill on the ground- much to the horses’ delight, who have taken full advantage of the free-for-all created by Jaksier’s distraction.

Geralt packs the food carefully away from equine noses before placing an arm around Jaskier’s back, guiding them both back towards the warmth of the fire. They sit side by side, knee to knee, Geralt’s hand still resting loosely on Jaskier’s back. 

Once they’re settled, Jaskier decides he needs to pivot the conversation slightly before he does something properly embarrassing like burst into tears. “This morning, I suppose I wasn’t expecting anything more to come of the encounter. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. So I was taken aback when you brought it up again. And I didn’t...handle what you said very well.” 

“I don’t care about any of that. What I mean is. You don’t have to explain it to me. I know that I pushed you too far. And I’m sorry.”

“You deserved some sort of explanation after what you saw,” says Jaskier softly. 

“You don’t owe me anything, Jaskier. Nothing at all.” 

That couldn’t be a bigger lie, and yet Geralt sounds so firm Jaskier doesn’t know how to refute the statement directly. Perhaps, his self-loathing whispers, it’s not that Geralt feels he isn’t owed anything but that he doesn’t want Jaskier to be the one who owes him it. He lets his internal disgust of himself guide his response. “Yes, well. I can see why you must have thought me quite mad. What self respecting man would have let someone do that? You would have never- I don’t know.” 

Jaskier trails off. His whole body feels like an exposed nerve, and his thoughts are one large tangle of thorns- impossible to disentangle without pain. He tries anyway. “All I can tell you is that pulling an offensive move has never worked out so well for me before, and it’s always easier to just...let him have what he wanted. Believe me, I say that with more than an ounce of shame. I know that I’m a terrible coward for thinking that way.” 

“Jaskier-“

Those damn tears from before threaten to fall despite Jaskier’s best efforts. His hands shake where they rest in his lap. ”No, no. I. I know that I am, it’s okay-“

“Jaskier!” interrupts Geralt, covering his hands with his own. His skin is startlingly warm compared to the icy air. Jaskier risks looking up. “None of this was your fault.” 

Even through his tears, Jaskier can see Geralt’s sincerity plainly, but he can’t bring himself to trust it. He’s been caught out by people who excelled at deception in the past. “You don’t have to lie to me to spare my feelings.” 

“I‘m not lying. I’m sorry if any of what I said implied that I thought it was your fault. That’s the last thing I wanted. Any blame for what happened lies solely at the feet of that spineless bastard.” Geralt practically spits out the last word, mouth flattened into a sneer. “None of the things that you were thinking about yourself were going through my head. None- not one- no none of them, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier smiles despite himself. He extracts a hand to wipe at his face, trying to give the appearance that he has his emotions under control even if Geralt’s words are causing him to fall apart on the inside. Geralt squeezes his other hand tighter for a moment before letting go, drawing back out of his personal space. Jaskier finds that he misses his presence. 

“We haven’t been so good at this communication thing so far, have we?” he quips, in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

“Hmm, no. But then witchers aren’t exactly given lessons in the art of conversation. What’s your excuse?” 

“Oi! Rude!” laughs Jaskier, giving Geralt a light shove to the shoulder. He manages to draw a small grin out of the witcher, and something flutters in Jaskier’s stomach at the sight- this time out of happiness rather than fear. Jaskier wants to keep that feeling alive, feed it until it blooms brighter, but the fire has burnt down past embers now, and the coals are barely giving out any light. “I’m afraid I’ve kept us both from our beds much longer than I anticipated.”

“I’m glad that you did.”

“Yes well. Me too. Nevertheless, I should probably go. Get some sleep.” 

Geralt turns his head. “Yeah, I should finish up with the horses.” 

“Oh, shit. Of course. Do you need an actual hand? I promise I’ll actually help this time.” Jaskier feels like an ass for distracting Geralt when he was trying to do something important. 

“No, no. I’ve got it. Go- rest.” Geralt jerks his head towards the tent where Eskel and Lambert are already sleeping, presumably. 

“Okay, Geralt. Goodnight. Thank you for...” Jaskier gestures awkwardly between them. 

Geralt nods solemnly. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

He feels physically lighter, a weight off his chest as he goes to make his way to the tent. Who knew that all it takes to lessen the swirling anxiety inside Jaskier’s mind is to talk to someone rather than bottle everything up. 

He’s barely made it a few paces before Geralt calls him back. “Jaskier- wait-“

Jaskier halts, turning back to face Geralt. “Have you changed your mind about needing a hand? Because I’m happy to-“ 

The rest of what Jaskier goes to say ends up muffled against Geralt’s chest as he brings him in for a hug. It’s different than Lambert’s hug earlier, less crushing and more tentative, like Geralt is afraid of holding on too tight. They’re of a similar height, so Jaskier has to stoop a bit to press his head against his chest, but Geralt is so _broad_ that he can’t help but feel small for the length of the hug. It should make Jaskier feel vulnerable, but it doesn’t. It makes him feel safe. 

Geralt releases him. “Was that okay? I just wanted to…” His voice trails off, as if even he didn’t know where he was going with that sentence. He looks worried, as if afraid his touch was unwelcome. 

“Yeah, that was okay,” says Jaskier quietly. “But I really should. Go. Will you be okay out here?” 

Geralt smiles. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Goodnight.” 

The image of that smile is the last thing in Jaskier’s mind before he falls asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just know that I have a headcanon (do I get to make those or are my thoughts just canon?) that both Eskel and Lambert are shamelessly sitting with their ears pressed to the tent flaps, listening to every word of this scene like it’s their own personal telenovela. Do with that information what you will. 
> 
> Also, I’ve added this story to a series (of the same name). You might want to subscribe to that series if you want to be notified about that surprise I mentioned. I’m aiming to have it posted by the weekend ;) 
> 
> As ever, let me know what you think.
> 
> Edit: Just noticed that this has now surpassed 50k words! Which is wild. I never intended to write this much but I’m so thankful that I have. You’re the best audience I could have asked for ❤️


	20. 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier starts to rediscover old passions, and Geralt provides a moment of comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I hope you’re all holding up okay this week- I don’t know about you, but my 2021 is not currently shaping up to be any better than 2020. In lieu of fixing any of the many problems in our broken world, here’s a chapter that contains only the barest hints of angst, if you squint ❤️
> 
> (Although rest assured that that won’t last long around here)

After his discussion with Geralt, the atmosphere amongst the group is much lighter, to Jaksier’s immense relief. 

Any tension has, for the most part, dissipated now that Geralt isn’t trying to isolate himself from everyone else and now that Jaskier isn’t driving himself mad by thinking in anxious circles- at least about what happened that night, anyhow. The incident can be forgotten, as it should, and Jaskier can let the unbridled joy he feels at being allowed to stay with the group bubble up out of himself; he finds that he’s quicker to smile, quicker to join in with conversation, quicker to take up space rather than to always fade into the background. It’s not a dramatic change from the outside, or at least Jaskier hopes that it isn’t since he doesn’t want to be an annoyance to anyone. Certainly none of the others comment on it, but Jaskier feels a large difference within himself. 

The biggest change in the landscape of Jaskier’s mind is the reappearance of his music, which was honestly something Jaskier thought might have been beaten out of him for good up until now. He hasn’t allowed himself to think of anything even remotely musical in...gods above, years, probably. At one point in time music had flowed out of him, as fast and as strong and as free as the waters of the river Buina, but then the river had dried up (been dammed up) and any time he’d tried to so much as sing a single note panic would overwhelm him. Jaskier had mourned the loss deeply, but with so many other things to focus on, such as his own survival, he’d forced himself to let that part of himself go. 

The first time he’s aware of music returning to him is one morning just before breakfast, a day or so after his discussion with Geralt. He’s half awake, sleepily clutching his cloak around his shoulders and yawning periodically as he stirs a pot of porridge over the fire. He doesn’t have this job every morning- they still tend to trade jobs back and forth amongst everyone so nobody gets stuck with the rubbish tasks, according to Lambert. Quite honestly, Jaskier would do any of their chores happily, but the rotation keeps the routine from getting too monotonous.

He’s a little nervous about the possibility of messing up the food. While he’s seen the others ruin parts of a meal without any consequences beyond some good natured teasing and exaggerated grimaces while eating the burnt bits, he can’t quite convince himself that it would be okay for him to fuck anything up. He keeps his focus completely on the pot, ignoring what the witchers are doing around camp as they move about in his peripheral vision. 

Luckily, it’s pretty hard to mess up porridge as long as you keep stirring it, so it’s a task that doesn’t require much mental attention. Jaskier’s thoughts wander without him realising it at first, lulled by the repetitive motion, but when he zones back in he realises he’s been humming a tune under his breath, the chorus of a well known and innuendo-laden drinking song. Jaskier can’t remember the last time he even heard it performed, but he remembers that it used to be one of his favourites to sing to himself growing up, the lyrics seeming downright scandalous to his naive ears, always causing him to burst into childish giggles.

The ghost of a smile crosses his face at the reminder of one of the few fond memories of his childhood he has before his brain catches up to what he was just doing. He cuts off the sound abruptly, his heart pounding heavily in his chest. Did anyone hear him?

He looks around as surreptitiously as he can. Nobody seems to have noticed the sound, or if they have they don’t seem outwardly bothered by it. Lambert is about twenty feet away, over by the river filling their waterskins; even with a witcher’s enhanced hearing, he probably didn’t hear. Eskel and Geralt are closer; they’re in the middle of packing the saddle bags and bickering amicably about how best to fit their supplies inside- they probably didn’t hear either given how preoccupied they appear to be. 

Jaskier breathes out shakily. For now, he seems to have gotten away with humming without anyone batting an eye. He keeps a more careful watch over himself for the rest of the time he stands there cooking, worried about slipping up like that again. He shakes his head, trying to shake out the distracting thoughts to focus on what he’s supposed to be focusing on right now. 

He gives the pot one last stir, before calling out, “The uh, food’s ready now, if you want to come get some!”

He spoons out portions into the bowls carefully, saving his own bowl for last partly out of politeness but partly to make sure everyone else gets enough food first. He’s not confident that he’s made an ample quality for everyone until he can see for certain that the witchers’ bowls have been filled. 

It occurs to him as he eats that it’s likely nobody would have cared even if they had noticed him humming. Eskel does it all the time when it’s his turn to look after the horses, using his slightly off-key voice to soothe them if they’re in an anxious mood. He can’t recall anyone ever reacting negatively when Eskel does so. Maybe it would be okay if he wanted to sing too. 

Jaskier doesn’t quite have the courage to try singing aloud again, just in case, but he lets his thoughts drift to music much more frequently after that. He composes fragments of melodies in his head, picturing his fingers plucking delicately over the strings of a lute, the sound sweet and pure even if it’s only in his imagination. Possible lyrics drift into his mind at the most random moments throughout the day- none of them particularly sophisticated or witty but all of them coming from a part of his brain that’s been silent for a long time. It’s nice, to have something to focus on that isn’t his usual all-consuming worry. He only wishes that he had some way to record all his ideas, but he has no pen or paper to speak of, and deep down he knows that it would be a bad idea, to expose his innermost thoughts like that. It’s only a small disappointment not to be able to write his ideas down, because Jaskier is too thankful to be coming up with them in the first place. 

Anyway, the point is that Jaskier finds himself more at ease with each passing day he spends with the group. He doesn’t understand it, how he tricked his way into this group, but he’s starting to trust it, and Jaskier doesn’t think that’s ever happened to him before. 

The only dampener on his mood is the cold. Even with Jaskier’s high tolerance for discomfort and pain, the dropping temperatures are starting to really get to him. 

At night, he can mostly ignore it- their strategy of sleeping with him in the middle means that the cold doesn’t reach him quite so badly. The sense memories of other times he’s had to share a bed for _other reasons_ are hard to handle at times, especially when he’s lying on his back, two muscular bodies hemming him in on each side as he lies there, helplessly stuck in between. He tries to just breathe through the panic when it arises, reminding himself that the witchers aren’t going to hurt him as he waits for sleep to come claim him, but it doesn’t always work. He reminds himself that it’s a small price to pay for being warm.

During the day, there’s less that they can do to keep the cold from bothering him. He’s riding with Lambert today, so at least the worst of the windchill is kept off him by his position seated behind him rather than in front, but his hands throb with cold where he has them clasped around Lambert’s waist. He can’t do anything about it, too afraid he’ll lose his balance and end up being thrown from the saddle if he lets go to try and warm them up. He grits his teeth, and lets himself be thankful for the fact that the rest of him isn’t quite so cold. 

By the time they stop for lunch, Jaskier’s fingertips are a deep, purple-toned red, and almost completely numb. They don’t tend to start a fire in the middle of the day, the process too time consuming when they only really stop long enough to eat and stretch their legs, so he settles for sticking his hands under his armpits in an attempt to rub some warmth back into them. 

Eskel gives him a strange look when he reluctantly removes one hand from its refuge to take a piece of bread from him. “What’s wrong with you, lad?” 

“Nothing’s wrong, Eskel,” says Jaskier, taking a bite of bread to stall for a second. He doesn’t want to be a cry baby, complaining about something as petty as his hands being cold, but Eskel’s looking at him expectantly. “Well. Actually, my hands are a little cold- I’m just trying to warm them up.” 

Concern blooms on Eskel’s face. “You should have said something- here, will you let me look at them?” 

Jaskier reluctantly holds out each of his hands in turn, switching which hand he eats with as Eskel inspects the other. The witcher sucks in a breath over his teeth, wincing at how red his skin is. “Fucking hell, Jaskier! You’re at risk of getting chilblains. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“It’s not that bad, I’m fine.” 

Eskel doesn’t deign to justify the blatant lie with a direct response. “We need to get you some gloves, when we reach Daevon.” 

“We don’t need to waste money on that, I’ll can handle a little cold-“ 

“No, you’ll need them- it’s gonna be much _much_ colder from here on out.” 

A chill runs through Jaskier at the thought. That sounds bad. 

“I would give you mine but…” Eskel trails off as he looks down at his own gloves, made of supple brown leather and completely fingerless, meant to protect his hands from calluses, not cold. 

“Yeah, I don’t think they’d help with the problem much,” says Jaskier wryly. 

“No, maybe not. I have a salve, that could help? At least it’ll stop the skin from cracking.” 

“Sure, that would be great. Thanks, Eskel.” 

The salve tingles slightly when Eskel spreads it on his skin, and the moisture makes his hands feel colder while it sinks in, but Jaskier can tell it’ll help with the dry patches starting to overtake his knuckles and the crease of skin at the base of his thumb. He rubs his hands together, trying to get the salve to soak in quicker while waiting for everyone else to get ready to hit the road again. 

“What’s wrong?” asks Geralt around a mouthful of bread, making Jaskier jump when he’s suddenly right beside him when he wasn’t a moment ago. 

“It’s nothing, my hands are just cold. Eskel’s concerned about it.” 

“Give me your hands,” he says, polishing off his last piece of bread as he speaks, dusting the crumbs off his chest absently. 

“You’re not as polite as Eskel-“

“Just do it,” Geralt sighs, so Jaskier sticks his hands out again. Geralt cradles his hands gently in his own, getting them in the position he wants them, palms clasped together and his hands carefully not touching Geralt’s at any point.

“Don’t move.” 

Jaskier has a few seconds to be utterly confused as Geralt draws his hands slightly further away, before he registers the sensation of blessed warmth as Geralt casts _Igni_ . There’s a flash of fear in his gut, right as he comprehends that there’s suddenly fire right there. He expects the flames to burn him, desperately freezing his muscles in place so that he doesn’t flinch into the fire - _no, don’t, please, it’ll hurt -_ but when he pushes away the instinctual panic, he can see that flames aren’t close enough to harm him, reaching less than an inch above Geralt’s skin, but the flames are close enough to bring some feeling back into his fingers. It’s uncomfortable, at first, but slowly the pain lessens as the worst of the numbness dissipates. 

Geralt stands there patiently, hovering his hands over Jaskier’s until he lets him know that they’re warm enough now. The flames snap out of existence the instant he asks Geralt to stop, demonstrating the amount of control the witcher has over them. “Don’t tell Eskel I did that. He complains it’s too dangerous.” 

“I think he might be right,” Jaskier replies faintly, heart fluttering. “But um. Thank you.” 

Geralt grunts in reply, ducking his head and striding back over to Roach to double check her tack before they head off. Jaskier stands there, dazed, until Lambert calls him over. 

Even when the cold inevitably seeps back into his very bones as they journey onwards, the sun setting and afternoon turning to frigid night, Jaskier’s hands still feel warm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I eagerly await your thoughts! Did I overdo it with the comfort this chapter? What did you think about Jaskier’s music slowly starting to return to him? Any guesses for what’s in store next time? 
> 
> Stay safe, dear hearts, I love you all. ❤️


	21. 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and his wolves reach Daevon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers! I’m back with another update- sorry it’s a few days late, I struggled a bit with what exactly to include in this one. In the end I decided another lighter update was what the story needed for right now. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

As Eskel had promised, it takes only a handful of days to reach the city at their efficient pace of travel.

The days pass without incident, although Jaksier is aware that there’s a subtle tension that slowly seeps back into the group the closer they get to Daevon. He feels it in himself, the innate wariness of strangers, lots of strangers, congregated in one place. Nobody says anything to address the tension directly, but Jaskier can read it in the tightness around the witchers’ eyes. 

The only reason Jaskier isn’t panicking more is that he’s decided to permit himself the joy of music in some small way each day: a quiet hum to himself as he fetches water, a short little ditty as he dresses for the day, a melody murmured under his breath while collecting firewood. He doesn’t let his voice become any more than a whisper, nothing loud enough to be heard by anyone but him, out of an abundance of caution and more than a dash of fear, but he finds it’s enough. 

Enough to keep him from apologising every time he catches sight of the unhappy expressions the others now wear more often than not. Enough to stop his hands from shaking when dinner is stilted and awkward. Enough to keep him calm and collected even when the city of Daevon comes into view. 

The city sits proudly on the other side of the river, dense forest giving way gradually to neatly plowed fields that flank the city on three sides. Its squat, sturdy walls just about manage to contain the sprawl of squat, sturdy buildings; even with a poet’s heart, Jaskier can’t quite say that the place is beautiful, not in comparison to the wild beauty he’s spent weeks living and travelling within, but everything has an air of utility and usefulness that he finds he admires despite its ugliness. 

There are a lot of people travelling in and out of the city. The sun hasn’t yet reached its peak in the cloudless sky, as low as that peak is this late in the year, by the time they make it across the bridge and through the city gates. Jaskier squints past its piercing rays to observe the citizens of Daevon going about their daily business, glad that his position on Roach’s back keeps him from getting jostled. He has no doubt that if he was on foot, he would have been elbowed and shoved and pushed aside a dozen times already by the steady stream of people flowing past. 

Geralt guides Roach carefully down narrow, cobbled streets, searching for somewhere to stable the horses, Lambert and Eskel following closely behind. Just like last time they were in a public place, Jaskier feels the weight of curious eyes on the back of his neck, but he finds it not quite as crushing as it was before. One of the advantages of the increased street traffic is that there’s less attention on them specifically; they’re just another four unfamiliar faces soon to be forgotten amongst the crowd rather than a spectacle to be gossiped about for weeks. 

It takes a while of searching to find somewhere Geralt is willing to leave the horses behind- apparently, when presented with options beyond ‘the only inn in town’, the witcher is incredibly discerning in what he wants from a stable, and it seems that nowhere is quite up to scratch. It’s firmly afternoon by the time they find somewhere Geralt decides is worthy of housing the horses, a smaller place where the stablehands assure them all that the animals will be looked after with the utmost care- to which Geralt mutters under his breath “they fucking better.” 

The rest of the afternoon stretches out before them, a languid length of unfilled time. Jaskier’s not sure what he expects they’ll do, since in the short time he’s known the witchers he hasn’t known them to be idle, nor has he known them to go somewhere without a specific purpose in mind. He can’t imagine they would decide to venture into the city for no reason. He stays quiet as they walk along the street towards the city center, sidestepping passersby as best he can since they don’t jump out of his way like they do for the others. 

For some reason, it didn’t occur to Jaskier that they might split up, but of course it makes sense that they each have their own tasks to attend to. Once they reach a crossroads where several roads meet, both Eskel and Lambert declare that they have other places to be. Eskel explains that he needs to go visit an apothecary to see if he can exchange some of his home-brewed potions for ingredients and some expert advice on the more difficult brewing projects he has planned for winter. Lambert, meanwhile, wants to speak with a swordsmith he knows across town, who apparently owes him a favour after he helped him out last time he was passing through. 

Jaskier watches them both leave with something like apprehension settling in his belly. It’s just him and Geralt left now, awkwardly standing on a random street corner, staring at each other. He’s sure that Geralt has somewhere else to be right now, and that he doesn’t want an annoying human tagging along, but Jaskier finds that he desperately doesn’t want to be left alone in an unfamiliar city. 

Still, it’s not in his nature to be a bother, not if he can help it, and he can suck up the anxiety for a few hours to allow the others a chance to have a little time to themselves. He doesn’t want Geralt to stay with him out of obligation. 

“If you have to leave too, I don’t mind. I can…” Jaskier doesn’t know what he can do in the interim, but he can try to figure something out. He’ll find somewhere he can melt into the background for a bit, somewhere he can slip into the shadows and remain (safe, hidden, protected) unnoticed until the others come back. He’ll be fine, he thinks, with enough force to hopefully ensure that’ll be true. “I can look after myself, while you’re gone.” 

“No. It’s okay. I can- we can stay together.” Geralt clears his throat. “Unless. You’d rather be alone?” 

“No! Definitely not!” Jaskier blurts out, scrambling to reassure Geralt at the hint of uncertainty in his voice. He smiles, a small and hesitant thing that barely quirks his lips. “Is there anything you’d like to do?” 

Geralt shrugs, which Jaskier takes to mean ‘no, not really.’ They start to walk slowly, following the flow of people since it’s easier than trying to fight against them to stand still. 

“There are a lot more people around than I expected there to be,” says Jaskier, mostly to fill the silence. “Although maybe I’ve just got used to life in the wilderness. Is it market day, or something?” 

Geralt grunts. “Seems like it. The place usually isn’t this busy.” 

Jaskier thinks about his coin, still burning holes in his pockets. He plans to put some of them- maybe most of them- towards their lodgings for tonight no matter how much the others protest about it, but maybe, he thinks, it would be okay to spend a few of them now. “Do you think... I wouldn’t mind visiting the market, if that’s. If that’s alright? I know that we need to stock up on supplies while we’re in town, we could get that out of the way.” 

Geralt hums in the affirmative. “We are running low on a couple of things, and the market’s probably the cheapest place to buy ’em.” He glances at Jaskier, no doubt taking in his general state of anxiety. “You think you can handle the crowds?” 

Jaskier has no idea if he can handle the crowds, but he wants to try, so he nods.

“The market’s this way, I think,” says Geralt, striding with more purpose than he was before now that they have a destination in mind. Jaskier pushes his legs to move faster to keep up. 

The market square, when they reach it, is large- large enough to fit perhaps the entirety of Glen Uaine inside its borders. Merchants selling a wide variety of produce have set up in a semi-organised manner, their stalls approximately forming long rows that allow potential customers to stroll up and down to peruse their wares. Jaskier feels a bit overwhelmed just looking at it all. 

“We need a plan of attack,” he says conspiratorially to Geralt as they survey the area, watching the madness from the sidelines. “Remind me, what all do we need to get while we’re here?” 

Together they cobble together a list of essentials they need to buy and set out into the fray, though Jaskier is sure that they’re missing a few items that they’ll remember the instant they leave and kick themselves for forgetting. 

They make a surprisingly good team. With a witcher to back him up, Jaskier finds a boldness within himself he didn’t know he possessed, which allows him to haggle prices down that he can tell Geralt would have simply accepted without a fight were he alone; Geralt, meanwhile, is a much more...worldly shopper than Jaskier, and can discern with those enhanced senses of his when a seller is trying to disguise low quality produce with flashy marketing. 

The only awkwardness comes whenever it’s time to pay. Geralt seems to think it’s improper for Jaskier to be the one to buy what they need despite the fact that he’s responsible for consuming a quarter of their supplies, or perhaps he’s embarrassed to have things bought for him. Jaskier struggles to stick to his principles, so used to folding like a stack of cards at the first hint of displeasure from someone else, but he refuses to be a freeloader, not when he knows that the others cannot afford for him to be one, and so he won’t back down. At the first few stalls, it’s a tense fight to see who can get their money out quickest. 

Jaskier is sure that the stall owners think them completely mad, two grown men fighting to get their purses out of their pockets. But he gets the last laugh, since the more bags and packages they accumulate- that Geralt insists on carrying, the chivalrous fool- the slower he’s able to reach for his coin even with his cat-like reflexes, and so Jaskier ends up paying for the lion’s share of their new supplies, to his delight. 

They make their way through their shopping list quickly, and so they take to browsing instead. It’s a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, looking at pretty things Jaskier knows he’ll never be able to afford, but can’t help but covet anyway. 

They stop at a stall selling a variety of scented soaps which the seller promises will leave them with silky smooth skin after a single use. Jaskier listens attentively, hoping for free samples, but he notices that Geralt has gone stiff at his side. He shoots him a look of concern. 

“It’s the smell. It’s quite...pungent,” Geralt says in answer to his look, twitching his nose and breathing heavily through his mouth. 

In fairness, the strange medley of scents is harsh even to his own nose, let alone a witcher’s. Jaskier hastily moves them along, cursing his own carelessness in considering the comfort of his companion. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think- I forget that you’re much more sensitive to things like that than I am.” 

Geralt hums thoughtfully, much more relaxed now that they’re standing upwind of the offending stall. “Usually it’s easier to tune stuff like that out, but those soaps were particularly strong.” 

”To ignore it, you mean?” 

“Not ignore, no. More just. Not pay attention to. I can acknowledge the sensory input as the useful information that it is, but not let it overwhelm me. ” 

”I don’t think I have the concentration for that,” says Jaskier in reply, but as he says it he realises that’s not quite true. He thinks of that place in his mind that he goes when he’s in a lot of pain, when the world is so overwhelming that he can’t be present in his body any longer, and he thinks maybe that’s the same kind of compartmentalisation that Geralt is talking about. 

“Neither did I, to begin with,” Geralt continues, unaware of Jaskier’s confusing thread of thought. “It’s something you can learn, with enough practise.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to reply to that, doesn’t want to consider how much practise he’s had at ignoring his own pain, or how he might improve his ability to go numb with regular exposure to yet more pain, so he lets the conversation die off for a little while as they continue to browse the market. He knows that’s not what Geralt was even talking about anyway, but now that  _ he’s  _ thought about it, his mind seems stuck on the topic, and it takes him a little while to shake his mind free of the dark cloud that’s overtaken it. 

The final stall in this row of the market is a dressmaker’s stall, selling a variety of clothing, most of it second-hand pieces that have been carefully mended, or items that were made for a specific buyer but never collected. The prices are a lot more reasonable than some of the other stalls, though of course still expensive given that all garments have to be made by hand. Geralt is talking with the stall owner, a kindly looking woman with pale blonde hair coiffed in an intricate but practical braid, inquiring whether their range of under layers would be suitable for the colder climate further north in the kingdom. Jaskier tunes their conversation out, letting himself admire the craftsmanship of the items on sale. The dressmaker’s talent is evident in all of her pieces. 

His gaze lands on a beautiful woollen cloak- the fabric is dyed a deep, woad blue and the inside of the hood is lined with what looks like sheepskin. There’s even a pair of matching sheepskin mittens, sitting innocently beside it. He doesn’t allow himself to touch the fabric, fisting his hands at his sides, too afraid he might dirty it with his touch or be accused of trying to steal something, but his cold hands ache to reach out. He imagines that the inner lining of the hood would be so soft against his skin, and the wool so warm. Gods, he’d never shiver again if he had that to wear- 

“You should get them,” Geralt murmurs, interrupting Jaskier’s thoughts.

He breaks his gaze away from the clothes to look at Geralt, who it seems has purchased a few more things while Jaskier had been distracted. “Hmm?” 

“The cloak, and the gloves. You should buy them. They’d suit you.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t.” Jaskier flushes, embarrassed that Geralt has caught his blatant admiration of the clothes. 

“You could- should even. The rest of the journey is only going to get colder, you’ll need the extra layers,” Geralt replies simply, as if there’s no question in his mind whether Jaskier should buy himself such an exorbitant gift. 

“Do you- you don’t think it would be wasteful? To buy them?” Jaskier can hear the note of longing in his own voice, making him cringe slightly. 

“It’s not wasteful if it’s a necessity, Jaskier,” says Geralt gently.

Jaskier stares at the cloak again while he tries to make up his mind, doing mental arithmetic as fast as he can to work out if he still has enough left to contribute to the group if he does this. “It does look very warm.” 

He calls the dressmaker over to ask her what her best price on the set is- he doesn’t even try to haggle her prices down too much, he’s too high on the rush of seeing something he wants and being able to buy it for himself, even if he feels mildly guilty about it. He’s never been able to do that before, to buy something just because he wants it. Jaskier finds he likes the independence. 

Geralt takes his old cloak from him once Jaskier undoes the clasp, folding it neatly over his arm, and stands patiently while he gets the new one settled around his shoulders. Already the difference between the two garments is startling, the new cloak much more effective at keeping the heat in. He slips the mittens onto his hands, wiggling his fingers happily just to feel the fleece against his skin. “Well, what do you think?” 

Geralt smiles, his expression going soft in a way that makes him look years younger all at once. Jaskier’s belly swoops at the sight, at that softness being directed at him. “You look nice. It brings out the colour of your eyes.” 

Jaskier smiles back, unreasonably pleased. 

Across the square, a temple bell sounds, signalling the hour, making Jaskier jump a little at the sound. It’s much later in the day than he thought it was. Given the way he startles, it seems that Geralt had lost track of time too. “C’mon, we should head back now, the others will be waiting for us.” 

Jaskier follows Geralt’s lead, weaving their way out of the market, back towards the street they came down, keeping his gaze fixed on that bright white head of hair so he doesn’t lose him in the crowd. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find yourself wondering why I’m so obsessed with making sure Jaskier has some nice warm clothes to wear, know it’s a symptom of spending my lunch breaks at work outside in midwinter (and often in the freezing, pouring rain) in an effort not to get covid from the not-very-covid-safe lunchroom. I’m living vicariously through him and his thick, sheepskin mittens, okay? 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, as always! I love hearing from you guys ❤️


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